


Why?

by MonkOfTheNorth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Huge Life Changes, M/M, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2020-10-28 14:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonkOfTheNorth/pseuds/MonkOfTheNorth
Summary: Stiles is a bum. A no good druggy who takes money for sex. His life is shit, his health is a joke. He's a joke. He's worthless... He knows the only reason Scott keeps him around is for a quickie every now and again, otherwise he'd be on the streets. God, he's pathetic. A few encounters with a handsome stranger, Derek, might be just what he needs. He seems different. Stiles knows he doesn't deserve anything, though. He'll probably just fuck it up anyway.





	1. Rat

Stiles felt like jelly laying on the couch. His eyes tracked the delicate swirls of billowing smoke above his head as he blew out a drag from his blunt. He could swear it was sparkling up there—all gentle twists and shining glitter. He sucked in another drag, holding it in while he shifted to lay on his side. A grease-stained pizza box on the scratched-up, oak coffee table jiggled a little, instantly drawing his attention.

“What's good, my guy?” He said when it revealed a rather large, brown rat feasting on a slice of stale, cold pizza from God knows when. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, sucking in a drag and blowing the smoke at the rat. It turned to him, beady eyes studying him as it nibbled on a shriveled pepperoni.

“Yo, pepperoni is my shit too, homie.” He sank back into the lumpy, flattened cushions of the couch and giggled to himself. The rat, after realizing he wasn't a threat, went back to eating the pizza, unfazed. 

More sparkling smoke.

The sound of the rusted screen door screeching open barely even registered to him until Scott walked into the living room. His thin, white cotton tank top was soaked down his chest with sweat—probably from his work out. Stiles let his eyes wander over his glistening, brown skin, looking almost golden in the thin beams of light poking in from cracks in the beat-up blinds.

“Jesus.” Scott covered his nose with his hand. “It smells like shit in here.”

“Yeah, well, open a window.” Stiles chuckled at his own joke, if it could even be called that. He busted out laughing when Scott jumped at seeing the rat. He looked like a scared little kid. Scott just glared at him and snuck up to the pizza box, snapping the lid shut and trapping the rat inside. Stiles could hear its panicked squeaks and scratches.

“Hey, that was my man right there.” Stiles took another drag. Scott stomped to the door and chucked the pizza box, rat and all, out onto the weed-infested lawn. He stormed up to Stiles and snatched the blunt from his mouth. “Hey!”

“Goddamn, Stiles, when's the last time you took a shower?” Scott took a drag for himself before snuffing it out in an overflowing ash tray. Stiles stared slack-jawed at him for a moment.

“I dunno, like a day or two ago.” Stiles picked up a slice of pizza that had escaped from the box and stuffed it in his mouth, taking a huge bite.

“Yeah, well it smells more like a month to me.” Scott shouted from the kitchen. Stiles could hear him digging through the fridge and cupboards, looking for something to eat.

“Don't be so dramatic.” He said through his half-masticated lump of old pizza.

A quick blast from Scott's blender and then he responded with, “You smell like weed, cum, and sweaty ass.”

“That's not so bad.” Stiles joked. Scott made his way over with a cup full of protein shake and plopped down, hard, next to him.

“Yeah, well it is for anyone with a nose.” He awkwardly lifted his hips up to grab the remote from under him, giving Stiles a nose-bleed view to the anaconda stashed away in his gray sweatpants. A smirk spread across his lips. The TV started running some low-budget cop show while Scott sipped his shake. Stiles chomped at some more of the pizza.

“How was your day?”

“Fine.” Scott answered curtly. Stiles' eyes locked to the large lump in his pants when he absentmindedly shifted his junk. His mouth began to water a little. He quickly swallowed his unchewed bite while he shimmied closer to Scott. He snaked a hand down his abs and into his sweatpants, grabbing a firm hold of his dick and stroking it a few times. 

“Stiles, stop.” Scott objected. Stiles continued anyway, twisting his wrist a little just the way Scott liked it.

“What?” He asked, feigning innocence. Scott shifted around uncomfortably as Stiles leaned into it, pumping his fist in long, full strokes.

“Hey, knock it off, I said.” Scott said more sternly. “I don't want that right now.” Scott gripped his arm and tried to pull his hand out of his pants. Stiles held firm.

“You've never had any complaints before.” He leaned in and gently kissed a trail down Scott's neck. A wave of fury washed over Scott and he pushed at Stiles' chest with enough force to cause him to fall back against the arm of the couch.

“What the fuck?!” Stiles shouted.

Scott exploded with an annoyed rage. “I said stop! Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles, look at you! You stink! Fuck, go take a shower, man!” Stiles brought his knees up to his chest and curled himself into a little ball. Scott was scary when he yelled. “And do you got the rent money?! When's the last time you payed even?!”

“I payed.” Stiles responded much quieter than he had wanted.

“When?! For fucks sake, Stiles, this is a house, not a shelter! I let you stay here when we agreed you'd help pay! Get a job, fuck!” Scott aggressively wiped at some of his shake that spilled onto his tank top.

“I have a job!” Stiles yelled back. He instantly receded back again when Scott fired a furious glare at him.

“Fucking dudes for money isn't a job, Stiles! And even if it was, all the money you make goes to buying drugs and booze!”

Stiles was frozen in place—locked up. When Scott got like this is was best to just let him shout it out until he cooled off. After a few minutes of angry huffing and grunting, it looked like he had. Stiles slowly slid his way to the ground, and crawled in between Scott's legs. His gaze was focused solely on the TV. He rubbed his cheek up Scott's right thigh and ran his hands up to his crotch, attempting to pull the band of his sweatpants down.

“We can work out a deal or something, right?” Scott caught both his wrists in a tight vice-grip. That was going to bruise later. He shoved Stiles back, and he caught the corner of the coffee table in his back as he fell. He felt the air get knocked out of his lungs and he curled up again on the floor trying to get a breath.

“I said no. I'm done with that gay shit now. I'm gonna get a girl here soon.”

Stiles wheezed a little and then said, “Who, that Alison chick that serves at Randy's? Give me a break.”

“I'll get her eventually. It'll be nice to have some actual pussy again.”

“Yeah? Well I'll remember that when you come into my room at night, drunk and horny and looking for a fuck after she rejects you again.” Scott knocked Stiles over with the heel of his foot when he tried to get up.

“Stiles, I'm serious, get that rent money, or that's it.” Scott warned. Stiles scrambled to his feet, turning his head away from Scott and muttering “Yeah, yeah.”

He made his way down the short hall to his room and grabbed a bunched up towel on the ground and headed to the bathroom. He risked a sniff as the water heated—not too musty. His shower was quick—their water heater never had more than a few minutes of hot water. He didn't even bother to sling the towel around his hips as he went back to his room. He caught Scott in the kitchen staring at his ass as he stuffed a handful of Lucky Charms in his mouth.

He pulled on a relatively clean pair of jeans and a forest-green t-shirt along with his favorite dark-red, zip-up hoodie. He lifted up his sheetless, flat, memory foam mattress and reached inside the hole he had cut in the bottom, snagging a small bag of molly, a tiny bottle of lube, and his poppers vial. He stopped by Scott on his way out the door, snagging his own handful of cereal. Scott's willingness to share seemed to be his way of apologizing for getting rough. 

Whatever.

The streets were cold in the evening September air—well, only as cold as it could get in Beacon Hills, California. He zipped up his hoodie and flipped up the hood as a patrol car slowly rolled down the street of their shitty neighborhood. Stiles thought it would be better to duck down the alleyways.

Eventually, he made his way to the gay club downtown, The Iron Rail. There was a rather long line in front of the door, headed by a rather large fellow. Broad shoulders, hulking biceps, thick thighs. Handsome face if you liked chiseled, scruffy men with bomb-ass jawlines—which Stiles most certainly did. Carter if Stiles remembered. A few hopeful patrons groaned when he let Stiles right through. There were some benefits to doing Carter a few favors. Stiles snickered to himself.

Inside the place was booming. Flashing lights, lazers, go-go dancers. He had to push himself through some sweaty bodies to make his way to the bar. He had already spotted a few men eying him hungrily on his way up. He leaned back against the bar and scanned out into the club.

“You gonna stand there or are you gonna order something?!” The bartender shouted over the thumping music. Stiles ordered a beer and shimmied his way towards the back. He bobbed a little, dancing to the beat. A few dudes all but circled around him like vultures. Most were aged men, probably somewhere in their mid to late forties. Hey, whatever payed. Stiles fidgeted with the baggy of molly in his pocket, slipping one of the tablets out and quickly popping it in his mouth.

Most of the men seemed a little too nervous to approach him, so he smiled and flirted from afar to encourage them. One of them, an older man with graying hair and a belly came up to him. He was a little shorter than Stiles, so when he leaned in to whisper in his ear he awkwardly pressed his body against his. Stiles was no prude, he didn't really care whether a dude was his type or not, so it didn't really bother him.

“Hey there, sexy.” The man said. Smooth...

“Hey, you like what you see?” Stiles said, skipping all the formalities. The man ground his crotch into Stiles', gyrating his hips a little.

“Yeah...” He said breathily. Stiles swayed with him when he snaked an arm around his back and pulled him against him.

“A hundred for a blow, two-hundred if you wanna fuck.” Stiles whispered back into his ear. The man jerked away enough to look Stiles in the face.

“You a whore?” He asked. 

Tactful.

“I'm a business man.” Stiles said. “You in?” He accentuated his point by grabbing the man's semi-hard cock through his khakis. He seemed to be mulling it over in his rather broad head. Eventually, he nodded. Stiles smirked and led him to the bathrooms. A few people were inside already, taking a piss. He led his new customer to a stall, unabashedly, though it seemed like he was a little uncomfortable. Stiles heard the others leave when he locked both of them in the stall.

“What'll it be?” Stiles asked. It was nice to not have to shout over the blaring music. The man looked him up and down. He turned around and wiggled his ass a little for him. That seemed to really get him going.

“Let's fuck.”

Stiles smirked again. “Money first. Two-hundred.” He reminded. He slipped the glass vial out of his pocket and huffed some poppers. The man took a whiff when Stiles offered. Damn, that was electric. Stiles hopped a little on the balls of his feet, starting to feel the poppers kick in even over his high from the molly. The man counted out the two-hundred and slipped the bills into Stiles' pocket. He wasted no time searching for Stile's lips. He turned his head away, humming out a “Hmm-mm”, so the man took to sloppily kissing down his neck.

Stiles was malleable in his hands, letting him move him around as he pleased. He roughly spun Stiles around and gripped his hips tightly. He laid his torso over Stiles' back as he dry-humped him. Stiles pushed his ass back and wiggled it against him, enticingly. Clumsy hands fumbled to open the button of his pants, eventually opening the flap and pulling his pants—sans boxers—to his ankles. The feeling of rough hands squeezing and spreading his cheeks felt amazing and when a calloused finger started massaging his hole Stiles didn't even bother to hold in his moans.

The man growled behind him, apparently incredibly turned on from the sounds Stiles was making. A little finessing to get to his pants on the floor and Stiles passed the bottle of lube back to him. A slick finger slipped it's way inside, wriggling around and pulling slutty little whimpers from Stiles' mouth. It wasn't long before Stiles was ready—the poppers helped a lot. 

“You got a condom?” Stiles moaned out.

“I'm on PrEP.” He growled. Stiles felt the slicked-up head of his cock push against his hole.

“Whoa, dude, you need a condom.” Stiles insisted rather lamely. The electric feeling of his touch and his warm body against his own was intoxicating and was magnified to glorious heights by the molly and poppers.

“C'mon, I'm on PrEP and clean. You clean?” He pressed a little more against Stiles' hole.

“I'm clean.”

“So what's the big deal?” Stiles hesitated for a moment, but when the man gripped his cock and dragged the head across his hole agonizingly slowly, Stiles caved. He nodded, signaling for him to go. The man pushed in, the head of his cock popping inside with ease. The drag of his slick shaft as he sunk in coaxed more moans from Stiles. He bottomed out quickly. He wasn't very big at all, but that was alright, it was still enough for Stiles to get some kind of pleasure from it.

He started pounding into Stiles roughly and without hesitation. He braced himself with a tight grip on the metal piping of the toilet as he was being taken. The slap of his hips against Stiles' perky, full ass echoed in the musky, dirty bathroom, drowned out only by the moans and cries he made while getting fucked. It felt amazing when he leaned over Stiles' back and hooked his arms under his shoulders. The high that Stiles was riding was making his head swim from pleasure in the most delicious way. He could barely form a coherent sentence when he thought the man was close.

“Don't...Ahhh!” His thrusts were coming faster now. “Don't cum in me...” He didn't seem to acknowledge Stiles at all. Clap, clap, clap! “Hey, don't-” He was cut off when his guest all but roared and slammed his hips into him as he came. Thick globs of hot cum exploded into Stiles' ass, causing him to nearly melt from pleasure. The man slacked against him and leaned on his back as he rode out the waves of his orgasm. After a minute or two, he rose and grabbed a few sheets of toilet paper to dry off is cock. When he slid out, the cum leaked out of Stiles' ass and onto the floor with a wet splat.

“Hey, I said don't cum in me, asshole!” Stiles pulled up his pants and spun around, pushing into the man's chest as he leaned against the stall, zipping up his own pants. He watched as he reached into his wallet and took out an extra twenty.

“Sorry about that.” He said, out of breath, “You got a sweet ass.” Stiles glared at him, but snatched the twenty out of his fingers. They parted ways and Stiles made his way back to the club. He ordered another beer and took up post again, scanning the crowd for any potential customers. He snagged a few more. He got caught on about the third and had nearly gotten thrown out. Luckily, it was just Carter after his shift change, so he just made Stiles take the rest of his business into he ally. All-in-all, it was a pretty lucrative night.

His high was starting to wear off when he spotted a handsome stranger across the way. He was awkwardly standing by a small table sipping his own beer. He was handsome, all dark hair—tousled perfectly—and stubble, and sultry, brooding eyes that were locked right to his. He looked away as soon as Stiles met his gaze. A shy one, huh? Stiles made his way over to him. The stranger watched with a tiny degree of horror and curiosity as he did. He came to stand next to him, both looking out into the crowd.

“Hey.” Stiles said.

“Hey.” He returned.

“I don't think I've seen you here before.” Not that that mattered, this place got so may people that everyone was new to him.

“This is...my first time in a club like this.”

“Oh-ho, a newby!” The man's cheeks flushed ever so slightly. At least, Stiles thought they did. It was hard to tell in the low flashing light. Still, he threw back his head with a full-bellied laugh. That seemed to fluster him even more. “What's your name?”

“Derek.”

“Derek, huh? Well, Derek, I'm Stiles, nice to meet you. You wanna dance?” The beat dropped on the song and people cheered as the thump and wump of the electro-bass kicked into full gear. Stile's watched Derek's thumb fiddle with the neck of his beer bottle.

“I'm not much of a dancer.”

“Oh, come on, it's easy.” Stiles raised his arms a little and started dancing up on Derek. The man was like a tree trunk, thick and muscly, his chest stretching the fabric of his plain black shirt to the extreme, not to mention his arms... He was a little taller than Stiles, though he didn't know if that was because he was actually taller or if it was because of the thick, tan leather work boots he was sporting. Either way, Stiles liked that.

“C'mon, just, you know, move around a bit.” He tentatively started moving, bobbing up and down to meet the beat. Soon enough, the two of them were all hands and hips, swaying and gyrating with each other to the music.

“There ya go!” Stiles laughed. He definitely saw a tinge of pink dust Derek's cheeks that time. What a cutie. “Hey,” Stiles leaned in to him to whisper in his ear, “You wanna go someplace more private and mess around?” Stiles felt the thick cords of Derek's rather impressive shoulder muscles tense when he placed his hands on them.

“What did you have in mind?...” Derek asked. His voice was shaky.

“We can do a hundred for a blow, two-hundred if you wanna fuck.” Stiles rattled off his routine proposition. Derek stopped swaying and Stiles felt him lock up. He seemed to not like that. “Er, we can do a fifty if you just want a tuggy.” Stiles offered.

Derek was silent for a long while before he finally answered. “I...” He paused. “Not interested.” A large hand rested gently against Stiles' chest and carefully pushed him back a little. Derek turned to walk away and Stiles called out to him. “Hey, you can find me here if you ever change your mind!” Derek met his eyes, a grumpy scowl painted across his handsome features. Then, he turned and walked away. Huh... After a few more minutes of dancing, Stiles' high was completely gone and he figured he should probably call it a night as well.

The air was even colder than when he left, so he stuffed his hands in his money-plump pockets as he walked home. The loud music of the club was traded for distant police sirens and barking dogs as he made his way through his neighborhood again. The screech of the rusty screen door alerted Scott as Stiles walked in. He was instantly bombarded with the horny moans of some bimbo in the porn that Scott was watching in the living room. Stiles fished the money from his pockets—seven-hundred-and-seventy dollars—and plopped it on Scott's now bare chest. “I'll get you the rest tomorrow.” Stiles said. Scott raised his eyebrows and whistled.

“Damn.” Stiles made his way to the kitchen, hopping up on the counter and shoving the rest of the Lucky Charms into his mouth.

“Hey, you wanna?...” Scott asked, trailing off. He hooked his thumbs under his waist band and pulled it down, letting his fat, semi-hard cock pop out and swing up.

“You're kidding, right?” 

Scott waggled his eyebrows and took hold of his member, shaking it around in hopes of enticing Stiles. “You've never had any complaints before.” He said.

Really? Stiles hopped off the counter and made his way to Scott, grabbing his cock and stroking it a few times. Scott put his hands behind his head and moaned as he did.

“Huh-uh, I thought you were done with that gay shit?” Stiles pulled his hand away. Scott's face was priceless as he caught Stiles' wrist, guiding his hand back to his shaft.

“C'mon, man, help me out, I know you love it, anyway.”

Stiles was not high enough to fall for that shit. He was still mad. “No, you can literally go fuck yourself, because I sure as hell won't be doing it tonight.” He wrenched his wrist free and headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He heard Scott groan in protest, but ignored it. When he was finished, he made his way to his room, replacing his goodies in the hole under his mattress. He took a moment to drag his small chest of drawers in from of his door. It wouldn't be the first time Scott would try to come to Stiles, not taking no for an answer. It was just a precaution. Fuck him, a night with his hand would do him good. After plopping down on his bed, still fully clothed, he could barely keep his eyes open. As he drifted to sleep, he wondered if that Derek guy would come back. One could only hope, he guessed.


	2. Ants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who enjoyed the first chapter. I was very shocked that so many seemed to like it. Going forward, I hope to continue to update this story as often as I can, and I hope that everyone who reads it will find even more enjoyment as it goes on. Thank you again.

“Hey, wake the fuck up!” Stiles' eyes cracked open at hearing Scott's voice. Well, more like shattered. He felt like one of those old-school Saturday morning cartoon characters who were sleep deprived to the point of breaking. His vision quickly focused in the low light of the shaded sun coming in through his rooms ragged curtains.

“What?...” His voice was hoarse and his throat was like gravel. The dull shock of Scott's hand slapping his face rippled through his skin—every inch of it feeling like rubber. Ugh... Stiles felt the warm pressure of Scott's other hand around his neck, not at all crushing, but squeezing none-the-less.

“It's seven, I gotta get to Randy's in an hour or so. You,” he took his hand off of Stiles' neck but jabbed a finger in his face in return, “need to get up. I'm tired of you sleeping your life away.” Scott lazily scratched his bare chest as he walked out of the room. Stiles noticed his chest of drawers was laying, tipped over, to the left of the wide open door. So much for that line of defense...

He slowly forced himself to sit up, the blood rushing around in his head and setting off the pounding of a gnarly headache. Fuck. He swung his legs over the bed and followed Scott out into the kitchen where he was already shoveling a bowl of what smelled like sickeningly-plain oatmeal into his mouth.

“Shit, I don't know how you eat that crap.” Stiles said through a yawn.

“It's good for you, not like you'd know with the way you treat yourself.” Stiles stared morosely into the the bag lining the box of Lucky Charms, filled only with dust. He tossed the box to the side, sifting through the junk in the fridge to get to the eggs. Scott went to sit with his oatmeal and turned on the TV.

“I think I'm gonna make my move with Alison today.”

Stiles cracked some eggs into a pan filled with a generous scoop of sizzling butter and pushed them around with a spoon. “Oh yeah? You really think you can still fuck her?” Stiles felt a balled-up, old sock hit him in the the back of the head. “Hey!”

“Yes, I do. But I don't wanna just fuck her, I wanna, like, take her out, ya know?”

Stiles scoffed and muttered under his breath. “And I'm the gay one?” Another sock hit him square in his back as he plated up his eggs.

“I heard that!” Scott scolded. 

Stiles gave up on finding a clean fork and wound up just rinsing off one that didn't look too bad and came to plop next to Scott. He wolfed down a third of the plate in just a second or two, puffing out his cheeks to fit it all in.

“You're a slob man.” Scott commented. Stiles' eyes honed in on a few crusty, dried stains on his sweats that he had obviously not changed from the night before.

“Whatever, bro.” It took Stiles no time at all to finish his eggs, after which he plucked the snuffed-out blunt from yesterday out of the ash tray and lit it up again. Scott ate in silence as well, disappearing only to come back a few minutes later dressed in his slightly wrinkled work uniform. A disturbing image of a cow licking it's lips while serving up it's own haunch rested just underneath the Randy's Grill logo.

“I'm outta here.” Scott said while simultaneously trying to tie his apron and force his feet into his pre-tied shoes. “Don't forget, you owe more for your half of rent. I need that today, no later, man, or else-”

“Or else you'll kick me out on my ass and change the locks, yeah yeah.”

Scott sauntered up to him. “I mean it, bro, get your shit together.” Scott ruffled Stiles' hair and immediately curled his lip and wiped his hand on his apron, not realizing just how greasy it was from all the...work Stiles had done last night.

“Later!” Scott barked, walking out the door. Stiles took a long drag from the shortening blunt and leaned back, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. He sprang up and let out a string of expletives when he knocked over a glass of mold-covered orange juice. “Shit, shit!” He ran to his room to get his towel to sop up what had spilled, taking the rank cup and Scott's half-empty oatmeal bowl over to add to the tremendous pile of dishes by the sink. He grabbed a Gatorade, the blue one, from the fridge and chugged down a few gulps when his head started pounding again. After a few puffs, Stiles sucked his last drag and flicked the smoldering bud into the scummy water of a bowl in the sink. He swigged the Gatorade again when he spotted a trail of ants marching their way into Scott's leftover oatmeal. He leaned on his forearms against the counter, bringing his face up close to them. 

Little black critters—shiny too. Their wiggling antennae pulled a chuckled from him. None of them payed him any mind as he watched them all pile onto the oatmeal and skitter about, eating it up and darting out again to wherever they came from.

“Look at you guys, huh. Got your lives all figured out. Working and running around.” He poked at one of the tiny ants, but it ignored him. “Pointless if you ask me.” He gently pinched the back of one, lifting it up and bringing it to his eye level. It wriggled around, trying to break free. Stiles brought it to his other thumb and pressed its body against his skin. After a moment more of flailing, the ant brought its abdomen up and stung into his flesh.

He felt nothing.

“You can't hurt me, little guy.” He said. In one swift movement he crushed its head between his fingers, halting its fervid movements. He flicked its corpse off his finger and slumped over on his way into the bathroom, taking a piss and hopping in the shower. Damn, Scott, it was ice-cold! He was running out of clean clothes, he should probably take a few loads to the laundromat soon. A plain, gray shirt—a little too small for him after shrinking in the wash—and the same pair of jeans is what he decided on. He pulled on his hoodie and retrieved his supplies from under his mattress before rushing out the door.

He wasn't exactly sure where he was going, but it was better than sitting inside. He eventually made his way to the gas station on the corner of the street just outside his neighborhood. “A pack of Marlboro Reds.” Stiles blurted to the cashier as he made a beeline to the Cheetos and tossed a bag on the counter as well. He paid and left, taking out his shitty Samsung Galaxy and shooting a text to his dealer. He waited for him in the alley a few buildings over from the gas station.

Stiles was already puffing a cigarette when he heard rapid-fire Spanish over a heavily up-turned bass from a low-riding Chevy pulling into the ally. He crossed his arms when a Mexican man sporting an over-sized, white t-shirt, low hanging shorts, and a loosely-tied bandana around his head stepped out to him.

“What's up, 'mano?” He asked. 

“Hey, Carlos.” Stiles took a drag, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. Carlos took out an eighth and a few pills of OxyContin and Percocet in a small baggy.

“You got the money?” Stiles handed him a wad of cash. He flipped through it as Stiles nibbled his bottom lip. He crinkled the bag of Cheetos in his hand nervously. Carlos' eyes flicked up.

“You're short.”

“I'm about average, actually.” Carlos didn't look amused.

“A'ight, puta.” He turned to leave but Stiles quickly gripped his shoulder to stop him. Carlos pinched his shoulders back and got in Stiles' personal space. He put up his hands in defeat, still holding his smoldering cigarette but dropping the Cheetos. “You don't got the money, you don't get shit.”

“C'mon man, I have most of it.”

“Listen to that word. MOST.” Carlos mockingly put his hand up to his ear. “That don't sound like ALL to me.”

“What about just the pills?”

Carlos scoffed. “Nah man, you wasted my time.” He tried to leave again, but Stiles came around to stand between him and his car.

“What if I pay the rest some other way?” He said while reaching down to cup Carlos through his shorts. Forceful hands immediately shoved into him.

“What the fuck, I ain't no joto!” Carlos shifted his eyes around, looking down both sides of the ally. They were completely alone. Stiles stepped up again, closer this time, and cupped him again.

“No one's got to know.” Carlos placed his hands on him again like he wanted to push him away, but hesitated. Stiles smirked.

“Aye, I dunno, chingado...” Stiles walked him back and gently pushed him against the wall, wedged between his parked car and a blue dumpster, hidden away from prying eyes. He sank to his knees and started undoing the button of Carlos' pants. “Aye, don't tell anyone about this, understand?” Stiles nodded and pulled the loose band of his boxers down.

He was uncut and only a little hard. Straight boys always needed a little something to get them going. Stiles snuffed out his cigarette on the concrete next to him and then opened his mouth, taking the soft cock in without missing a beat. He shifted it around with his tongue a bit, wetting it as best he could. He felt it stiffen up as he did.

“Ay, mierda...” Carlos sighed out. It was difficult to smirk at that around the growing shaft so Stiles just went for it instead. He pulled back the foreskin and swirled his tongue around the sensitive tip, coaxing tiny gasps from his curious friend. Carlos' fingers found their way into Stiles' hair, pulling tightly and pushing his head to meet a thrust of his hips. Stiles fought a gag when his cock pushed its way into his throat, but he held himself there. Glancing up, Stiles could see Carlos let his head fall back against the brick ally wall in pleasure.

He fucked Stiles' face for a bit before releasing him from his forward-thrust hips. Stiles' lips popped off with a wet smack and he gasped to catch his breath. He only took a moment before he was back again, sucking the fucking soul from his dealer. Carlos' hips started thrusting in tiny little movements and a long string of curses erupted from him as he exploded in his mouth. Stiles kept his lips firmly sealed around his cock as he came, swirling his cum-covered tongue around and teasing out all he could. 

Carlos pulled out and Stiles spit the load out next to his cigarette. That shit was foul.

“Jesus, man, you eat anything else but chicken wings and Red Bull?” Carlos either didn't hear him or just ignored him as he pulled up his pants, trying to catch his breath. Stiles stood and came to stand next to him by the hood of his car. He handed the eighth and the baggy of pills to him which was promptly stuffed deep in Stiles' pockets. Carlos chuckled as he got into his car. “Al rato, vato.” he said from his rolled-down window as he started his car and drove away.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” Stiles made an over-exaggerated salute towards him. He began making his way back to the gas station and slipped into the bathroom. He took out two of the oxycodone and placed them on the edge of the sink, gently yet firmly crushing them into a fine powder with the end of his phone. He bent down and huffed the powder up his nose, throwing his head back and shaking it from the sting. “Whew!”

He pocketed his phone as he caught a look at himself in the filthy mirror. Half his visage was split as his face was reflected over a deep crack in the glass. His eyes flicked over the image. Off-colored circles were settled just under his hooded eyes and the pores on his nose were looking larger than he remembered. A few beads of sweat met trails from the watering corners of his eyes and flowed over his dry, cracked lips. He wiped his face, looking away while sniffing up some snot back into his irritated nose. 

He left as inconspicuously as he could, the eyes of the cashier following him on his way out while he picked some dead skin from his bottom lip. He hated that Scott woke him up, what the fuck was he even supposed to do until the Iron Rail opened? He pulled up his hood and set a brisk pace back home. He was flipping, mindlessly, through Instagram when he walked up to the worn-down chain-link fence that enclosed his lawn—more weeds than lawn, actually. A little girl was standing in the yard of the house next door. Stiles eyed her.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” He hissed. She blinked at him, unfazed, and still wearing that same stupid expression, so he rolled his eyes and went inside. He figured he should probably wash some clothes. Scott was right about one thing, people didn't like stink. He piled as much as he could in a basket. Walking with a hamper of clothes blew, he really should try to get a car. But, fuck, that's just another thing to think about. Driving, insurance, gas. He'll leave that shit to the ants.

The laundromat was hella boring. No entertainment, no guys to fool around with—hell, even his high from that oxy couldn't save him from the boredom. And wouldn't you know, when he was done, it only wasted a few hours. Still a long time before the club opened. 

He sure wished he had some money right now, or at least that bag of Cheetos he dropped, he was famished. When he got back home he threw the basket and everything in it into his room without care, making his way to the kitchen to find something—anything—to eat. He took some time to smash some more ants with the side of his fist. Damn things were everywhere...

He kicked his feet up on the coffee table again with a half empty bottle of Fireball and a take-out container filled with some less-than-terrible-smelling broccoli beef inside. The next few hours were spent of him getting drunk and getting high while flipping through the shitty channels on TV. Pretty standard.

He was watching a gazelle get its throat ripped out by a lion through glazed-over eyes when he heard the screech of the screen door. Scott was home... Stiles barely turned his head, his eyes straining to look to the left at Scott waving his arms to disperse the heavy clouds of smoke floating in the air. Scott caught his gaze.

“Jesus,” He picked up the now very empty bottle of Fireball laying by Stiles' feet, “this was half full, wasn't it?”

Stiles shrugged.

“What are you watching?” Scott asked, untying his apron and throwing it to the side before joining Stiles on the couch.

“Some nature shit, I dunno.”

“D'you got that money?” Stiles shook his head. “Man I told you.”

“I'll get it tonight, what's the big deal?”

“Stiles, look at yourself, you really think you're gonna pick anyone up like that?” Scott picked up a brown-stained and crusty paper towel that was bunched on the table and handed it to Stiles, motioning for him to wipe his nose. A large blotch of red soaked into it after pressing it under his nose.

“I think I'm a knock-out.” Stiles joked.

“Whatever, bro, guess what?” Scott asked, excitedly.

“Guess what? What are we, in the third grade?”

“Man, just shut the fuck up and guess what!”

“You won the lotto?”

Scott punched him in the chest. It was meant to be playful—at least Stiles thought it was—but the wind left his lungs, causing him to cough and gasp for air. Scott got up and headed to the kitchen to look for food.

“Nah, I asked that girl Alison out again today and she said yes!” He sprinkled some old shredded cheese into his mouth.

“No shit?”

“Yeah, I invited her to that party that Jackson is having tomorrow. You goin'?”

Stiles laid on his side to face Scott when he plopped back down next to him. “You still talk to that bouji asshole?”

Scott shrugged. “Talk, not so much. Keep in contact so I can crash his bomb-ass parties, yes.”

“Where's this one at?”

“He bought some run-down house down on Chestnut and is gonna trash it all weekend.” Stiles rolled his eyes. Some rich fuckers have it good enough to buy whole houses just to trash. “Carlos and his crew will be there.” Scott snatched the smoldering joint that was hanging from Stiles' lip and puffed on it. “So will Lawrence and Kyle and Heather.”

Stiles chuckled to himself, remembering what he did to Carlos just a few hours earlier, before saying, “Man, I don't even know those other fuckers.”

“I can introduce you.”

“I dunno...”

Scott sucked in a huge drag and blew out a few poorly-formed and warped smoke rings. “Suit yourself.”

Stiles studied his face, his eyes tracing along his strong jaw and up to his disheveled, gently curling hair. Hooded eyes soaked in the sight of his plump lips closing around the joint and pursing out to rid the smoke from his lungs. Without thinking, he wriggled up on his knees and moved to straddle Scott's hips, their noses almost touching. “You're pretty.” Stiles giggled. 

He felt Scott buck up a little and grind against his ass. He brought the joint to the side of his mouth, not moving away from Stiles at all. He blew out the smoke directly in his face. “And you're drunk.” His hands gripped on either side of Stiles' hips, easily picking him up and moving him off. Stiles groaned dramatically and threw himself back against the couch as Scott went back to the kitchen.

“You're no fun!”

“I told you, I'm done with that gay shit.”

Scott sat with him after making himself some frozen microwave dinner and they watched whatever the fuck it was Scott was watching. Some overly-pretty detective flirting with some other overly-handsome detective, some C-list acting, some decent action. Whatever. After checking the time, Stiles freshened up a bit. The barely fogged mirror after taking his shower acted as his truest and most brutally honest critic as he scrubbed his face and lips from the grime and dead skin that had been piling up. The darkening circles remained under his eyes, but there was nothing he could do about that.

With just a simple “Bye.” to Scott he was out the door and on his way to the club. Tonight wasn't exactly a night he could allow himself to have too much fun—he needed to work for that money. Still, a little molly and poppers were absolutely needed to keep himself loose. 

Right?

The night wasn't as high-paying as yesterday, but he got the rest that he needed for rent. He had to force himself through some positively, mind-numbingly boring sex with a couple of old bags. The highlight of his night was when Carter snuck away on his break to partake in his services. Stiles gave him a discount just for breaking up the monotony of his clientele. He was just about to call it a night when his eyes caught a familiar sight out over the sea of faces.

Derek.

Normally Stiles couldn't even be payed enough to remember a name. His memory was truly selective. There was something about Derek that made him recall, though. Probably the tight shirt and plump ass. He was staring directly at Stiles, almost unblinkingly. The moment that they locked eyes, Stiles felt a small static tingle in his spine. He slowly made his way over through the crowd of dancing, sweaty men, Derek's eyes tracking him all the way.

“You came back.” Stiles stated as more of an observation than a conversation starter. Derek's lips were pressed tightly together for a long moment before they broke apart so he could speak.

“I did.” His voice as a low rumble. Stiles could barely hear so he moved closer, their bodies just a few inches apart.

“You change your mind?”

Derek was clutching a bottle of beer awkwardly in his hand. The tip of his thumb had a white and reddish hue from pressing against the neck of his bottle with some force. Stiles wasn't sure how to feel, or, how Derek felt, rather. He knew deep in his gut Derek wanted him, but he wasn't exactly sure why he was acting so strangely. 

“I...” Derek paused. The bass from the music vibrated deep in Stiles' chest as he hung on the edge of anticipation itself. He ran his hand over Derek's broad chest. The smooth and silky feeling of the fine fabric of his clothes was heightened under Stiles' molly-induced high. He could feel Derek tighten up again, so he forced himself to back off a little.

“No pressure, man.” Stiles said, backing up, ready to leave. A large, strong hand gripped his wrist. Stiles flinched, used to Scott's rough touch, but his was much more gentle, merely holding onto him to stop him from leaving. 

“Wait.” Derek said. He moved back in. “It's too loud here.” 

Stiles felt his lips tingle as they pulled into a smirk. He had to admit, he was a little excited that this stud changed his mind. It beat doughy bodies and gray hair for sure. He led them into the side ally, guiding Derek by the hand. The clunk of his heavy boots made dull echoes under the distant sirens and the muffled bumps of the dance music just inside.

He leaned against the ally wall, pulling Derek in close. “A hundred for a blow, two hundred if you wanna fuck.”

Derek was silent and as still as stone. In fact, the light from the moon lit up his face with a soft white glow, making him appear as though he had been cut from marble. His jaw—dusted with thick, short, wiry stubble—was sharp and proud. The strong cords of his neck curved up, gracefully, to where two goofy-looking ears still somehow added to his Adonis-like appearance. Thick, dark hair was shaped perfectly on his head, and a few locks of hair from his bangs—looking as though they had fallen from a once perfectly-styled quiff—were just long enough to fall over his eyes.

And oh those eyes. They looked almost like small orbs filled with swirling flakes of gold. Stiles wasn't sure what color they were, every angle seemed to show a different one. They were locked on Stiles' lips, his own lips parted just enough for his warm breath to ghost across Stiles' face.

Fuck.

Derek's hands slowly slid up Stiles' arms to come to rest on his shoulders. They were warm—no—hot, even through the double layered fabric of his clothes. Stiles' felt drunk from his touch alone, forgetting how to speak and letting himself get lost in their proximity. His body, firm with his obvious abs just under his shirt, pressed into Stiles' own. He felt his cheeks heat as a flush washed over him. His mouth slacked and his breathing became shallow as Derek leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.

The very brief thought that a move like that was far too intimate for the kind of business Stiles practiced was drowned out by the sensation of Derek mashing their bodies together. A stiff—and very large—bulge was pressed firmly against Stiles' hips. He brought his hands forward, forcing them between the tight seal that Derek had made of them and slipping down to touch it.

Derek stiffened again. Stiles wasn't exactly sure how to feel about that. It wasn't like it was a common occurrence for his clients to be repelled by his touch. Derek moved away, not by much, just by barely an inch or two, but enough that that sweet seal they made was broken. Stiles thought maybe that was a signal, so he shifted around, pressing his ass back against Derek's hips. He took the vial of poppers from his pocket, huffing up the vapor quickly before twisting a little and offering some to Derek.

There was no response, no move to take some, so Stiles shrugged and put it back in his pocket. After a few moments of nothing happening, Stiles risked another glance back. Derek's face was etched in pure mystery. A scowl was what it would appear to be from anyone else afar, but Stiles' saw something else in his eyes. Without warning, he roughly spun Stiles' around, pressing him into the brick and sealing their bodies together again.

A tiny and embarrassing “Oof.” escaped Stiles' lips. His skin lit ablaze when the rough stubble of Derek's cheek pressed and scratched into his own soft, fuzzy cheek. The drag of the beard against his face was like the most erotic feeling Stiles could ever imagine. That was, until Derek's large fingers curled under the front of his waistband. Derek's slow breaths—clearly strained from him forcing himself to keep his breathing in check—blew against Stiles' ear as his pants were unbuttoned. 

A tiny voice in Stiles' head told him to object, to say that that's not how things were done, but that voice was drowned out by the torrent of molly, poppers, weed, and booze rushing through his blood. A calloused hand wrapped around Stiles' stiff cock, the thumb moving up to massage the slit at the head. His eyes rolled back and his knees buckled, but Derek held him up as he became boneless from his touch. 

Firm, slow strokes forced pathetic whimpers from his mouth as Derek jacked him off in the ally. Every time Stiles' felt as though he was slipping to the ground, unable to stand from the sheer pleasure of those delicious strokes, he sunk further into Derek's hold. Braced. Secured. He felt like a grand oak tree, all leaves in the wind, fluttering in ecstasy, yet rooted to the ground and held up with a strong trunk. Derek moved their foreheads together again, their breath mingling together as they both panted out from pleasure. Gentle lips sought his own as Derek's pace increased, but Stiles turned his head. Instead, his lips kissed down Stiles' neck, slowly and softly. Each press against his skin was like an explosion none-the-less, like those tiny kisses possessed a strength that could fell a skyscraper. 

Stiles began to shake as his climax was coming quickly. The lip of his head was squeezed and twisted in the perfect way, like Derek had a blueprint to his body, like he knew exactly what would make him writhe, and quiver, and beg. Derek's pace was knowingly fast, like he had a sense that Stiles was close. A low, primal growl directly in his ear sent Stiles over the edge. He threw his head back, not even pretending that he could stand on his own. Derek supported him as his hand pumped the cum from Stiles' cock. Burst after burst sent shock-waves through his system, each one rattling him to his core.

As his climax began to lessen, Derek stopped his strokes, instead just squeezing out the last drops of cum from him. Stiles slumped forward, his head resting in the nook of Derek's shoulder. They stood there, Derek holding Stiles up and against his body as his breathing still came out labored from the glorious thing he had just experienced. His breath began to slow and some of his senses returned. He planted his feet more firmly on the ground, standing on his own yet still letting Derek hold him. He moved his head to look into Derek's eyes.

They were warm as they gazed back into his own. Their noses brushed against each other as Derek moved in hesitantly. Their lips were close, so close. Stiles was beginning to wonder if their breath was even separate, or if they had morphed together. He could feel Derek move forward, attempting to catch his lips, but he turned his head. Derek's kiss instead found the side of Stiles' jaw. He pulled back, searching for something in his eyes.

Stiles' heart began to pump fast. Too fast. Realization was quickly flooding back into him. He placed a hand on Derek's chest, pushing him away. Derek looked confused, as well as something Stiles was unfamiliar, or, perhaps even inexperienced with.

Hurt.

His mouth opened and spoke before his brain even registered what was being said. “I can't.”

“Why?” Derek's words just a breath from his lips.

“I...”

The muffled thumps of the heavy club music marked the beats of silence between them, neither able to meet each other's eyes. Eventually, Derek nodded and moved away. 

“Okay.” he said. The clunk of his boots walked further and further away from Stiles until a sudden moment of panic sprang up inside of him, though he wasn't sure why.

“Wait!” Derek stared at him from a few paces away. Again, Stiles' mouth spoke of its own volition. “What about my money?...”

Derek stood there, stiff as a board, his mouth pressing together. A scowl came across his godly-handsome features again as he took a few steps back toward Stiles while fishing his wallet from his pocket. He took out a few hundred dollar bills and Stiles' eyes widened when he threw them at his feet. A small breezed turned a few over as he crouched down to snatch them up. Derek turned and began to walk away.

Fuck!

“Hey wait!” Stiles called out to him. 

No answer.

Shit!

“Hey!” He was rooted in place, like some invisible force forbade him from going after Derek. Instead he just watched as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned the corner, out of sight.

Fuck.


	3. Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This chapter contains non-consensual content. Please read at your own discretion!
> 
> I am adding some music to go along with this story. Nothing big, just some stuff that I like to imagine goes with this story. Feel free to listen to the suggestions as you read as it may enhance the mood of the story.
> 
> The main theme for the overall work is The Snow is Dancing by Claude Debussy.
> 
> The theme for this chapter is Premiere Gymnopedie by Erik Satie
> 
> Please enjoy this chapter! Also, please forgive and gramatical mistakes, it's very late.

Yap! Yap! Yip! Yap!

The smoke of a lit Marlboro Red billowed up from where Stiles sat on the concrete steps of the front patio. His fingers mindlessly fiddled with a large, wobbly chunk of its corner that had cracked and chipped off.

Bow! Yip! Bow! Yap!

A sunken feeling settled itself deep in his gut. He took a drag. The cool air of the morning teased his nose, like fresh mint. All he could think about was last night. Derek. What the hell was that?! Was it some kind of cruel joke?! He brought his feet up one step higher, resting his chin on his knees and wrapping an arm around his legs.

Arf! Arf! Arf!

God, it was good, though. Wasn't it? Maybe that was just the poppers and molly... No—No, it was good. But odd. But good? But great! But...

Yip! Bow! Arf!

He took another drag. Regardless, it was inappropriate. That thought made him audibly guffaw. Inappropriate? Ha! Like anything about what Stiles did for a buck was 'appropriate'.

Yap! Yap!

Still, those eyes... The feeling of his skin... Of his body... They were fit together like puzzle pieces. Like they were-

Bow! Bow!

Why was he so hung-up on it?! Derek is just a customer! A very hot customer...  
No! Just a customer! Scott and Carter and a lot of other guys were hot too, why was he so different?... Stiles took an extra-long drag, blowing the smoke out his nose while chewing on his lip. Why did he make Stiles feel so-

Bow!

Why did he make-

Yap!

Why-

Arf!

Stiles rolled his head back, dramatically, with an exasperated groan. “Will you SHUT THE FUCK UP!” He yelled at the neighbor's dog in the backyard. He reached up and unlatched the screen door, loudly slamming it a few times to punctuate his frustration.

Arooooooooooo! Bow!  
Bark! Arf! Yip!  
Yap! Woof!  
Hawoooooooo!

He rolled his eyes when every neighborhood dog in earshot went off. He stood and threw his half-burned cigarette on the concrete and stomped it out angrily before heading inside. Scott was in basketball shorts with his feet kicked up watching whatever it was he watched all the damn time.

“What's got you all pissy?” he asked after a single glance at Stiles.

“Nothing...”

Scott shrugged and scratched his balls. It was obvious he only asked as a formality. Stiles stomped to the kitchen. More of those fucking ants! He began smashing as many as he could until his palm was covered in goo and legs and antennae. “Damn, are you gonna do something about these ants?!” 

Scott looked surprised. “What the fuck do you want me to do about it?”

“Maybe wash a dish or two, I dunno, fuck!”

Stiles wrestled with the pile of dishes, growling in frustration when his fingers dipped in some old mayonnaise.

“You're the one that's home all the time and you never do 'em! Some of us actually work!”

Stiles took the garbage over to the coffee table, tossing old chunks of pizza and moldy chicken bones in as he worked around Scott's feet. “Doesn't mean you're not just as lazy as me!”

“I pay for this house which you live in! Remind me again how this month was the first in seven that you payed!” When Stiles didn't answer Scott kicked his hand off the table. Without thinking, Stiles grabbed his ankle and shoved his feet to the ground. In a brief moment of clarity between his frustrations, they shared a look that told Stiles he really shouldn't have done that.

In an instant, Scott was on him. He sprang up, grabbing Stiles and throwing him to the ground. He floundered around when Scott straddled him, clamping his hands around his neck. Stiles tried desperately to slip away, but Scott was so damn heavy, especially with all the muscle he'd put on recently. Breathing became difficult. He gripped at Scott's beefy forearms, barely managing to wrap his whole hand around them, trying to loosen his grip. It was no use.

He showed no sign of letting up, so Stiles stopped flailing. Sometimes he would let him go if he just submitted. A pressure built up in his head, right behind his eyes, as it was now impossible to take a breath. Then, suddenly, Scott let go. Stiles spluttered and gasped for air, turning on his side to brace himself when Scott got up to sit on the couch again. He crossed his legs over Stiles, resting his feet back on the table, and continued watching TV.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Stiles wheezed. No reply. As soon as he could, Stiles rose to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom. He shut the door—the lock was broken so he didn't even bother. He inspected the reddening hand prints around his throat. Fuck, those were gonna bruise badly. The door swung wide as he burst out of the bathroom, slamming into the drywall and creating a rather nasty hole. He collected some essentials and headed for the door. Scott didn't even spare him a glance as he stormed out.

God he was fucking pathetic! Scott was right all those times he's told him he was a piece of shit. All he does is fuck, get drunk, and get high...

His feet took him on autopilot as his mind sifted through the thick silt of his streams of thought. His ears picked up the sound of cars whooshing by and people on the pavement. It was all white noise to him, though. He kept going—his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his head turned down—until his feet shouted loud enough over his own misery for him to stop.  
He looked around. He was pretty deep into the city. Some kids were giggling while playing at a park just ahead. Stiles took a seat on a bench on the other side of a chain-link fence, facing opposite the park and towards the busy daytime roads. He finessed another cigarette from its pack and lit it up. He caught the eyes of a horrified-looking mother one bench over, cradling her infant.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” He said with the cigarette pressed firmly between his lips. She sneered at him and quickly collected her things and left in a huff. Things were peaceful there. A few months ago Stiles was paralyzed at the thought of having to live on the street. Now he almost envied it. He leaned his elbows on his knees. Christ.

His pocket vibrated with his phone going off. A small curse escaped his lips when he fumbled to fish it out. Time slowed just a little as he read the screen.

Dad.

His thumb hovered over the accept button for a while as it buzzed in his hand. He answered.

“Hey.” was all he said for a greeting. There was a long pause before a response came.

“Stiles.” His dad stated, sounding almost to be in complete disbelief.

“Yeah?” He said while blowing smoke out through his teeth.

“Oh, I... I'm just surprised that I got you...”

“Well, you do. What do you want?”

There was another long pause ended by the quite sound of a cleared throat. “How are you?”

Stiles was really starting to regret picking up. “Fine.” He wasn't.

“That's...good to hear. How's Scott?”

Stiles craned his neck up, laughing up into the aether. “Is there a reason you called?”

“I wanted to know how you were doing. I care about you.”

“You stopped caring about me when mom died.”

The silence felt incalculably long this time. Stiles sat, still connected, and puffed without care.

“That's not true.” His dad's voice quivered a little.

“It's not? Well it sure felt true when you stopped smiling at me all those years ago. It felt true when every day the quiet scratched at my brain while I waited for you to say something! Anything!”

“Stiles-”

“It felt true when you kicked me out on my ass without giving a fuck!” Some children behind him 'ooed' at his choice of words.

“You are an addict, Stiles! I tried to get you help, but you were just so-”

“So disagreeable? So unwilling to fit in with the life you were starting to build with that bitch?”

“Stiles, now that's not fair!”

His eyes tracked the tiny glowing embers as he flicked some ash from the tip of his cigarette.

His dad spoke again, “I don't wanna fight with you, Stiles.”

He grunted.

“Are...Are you healthy?”

No. “I guess.”

“Are you safe? Are you eating well?”

Also no. “Oh, I live like a king.” That had a much stronger bite of sarcasm than he had intended.

“I love you, son. Please, make good choices.”

“Whatever.” He terminated the call, flicking his snuffed-out bud into a nearby garbage and setting off back home.

He checked the time before he shoved his phone back in his pocket. He'd been out here for hours. God knows where the time went. He tried as best he could to clear his mind on the long walk back. Jesus, he was in a bad mood. He wondered if Scott had cooled off enough for him to go home yet. It didn't matter, he was already close. The neighbor dog was still barking when he stepped through the door.

“Where'd you go?” Scott asked, slathering some jelly across a slice of bread and slapping it together with another caked with peanut butter.

“Out.” Stiles leaned on the other side of the counter. They locked eyes for a second or two before Scott slid the plate with his sandwich over to Stiles and started making another one. He picked it up and chomped into it. His glans sent a pang into his mouth after he replaced actual food with cigarettes for most of the day, but it passed quickly. The sandwich was like ambrosia.

“You gonna come to Jackson's party?”

He covered his mouth as he spoke around the half-chewed glob of carbs, fat, and sugar in his mouth. “What time is it?”

"It's here in just a few hours."

Stiles shrugged.

“Alright! The boys are at it again!”

“I thought you were bringing that Allison chick.”

Scott clapped together his own sandwich and ripped a huge bite out of it. “I am, but we can still hang a bit.”

“Sure.” He squished an ant with his thumb. “We picking her up?”

“Nah, she's bringing a friend and said it'd be better if they took their own car.”

“Smart.” Scott nodded and headed to sprawl back out on the couch.

Stiles pregamed with a joint and a few shots of vodka. He figured tonight would be the perfect night to piss away his troubles. Getting as fucked up as he could was his top priority. He slid into the passenger's seat of Scott's beat-up, rusty, ugly-ass 2005 Toyota Camry and leaned back into the worn-out cushion, watching the head-lights of passing cars whiz by. He took the time on the drive to crush up some oxy and snort it. Scott didn't seemed pleased at seeing Stiles use his armrest for that, but he held his tongue.

It wasn't at all surprising to see that the shitty house that Jackson bought to trash was in an even shittier neighborhood—even shittier than their own neighborhood if that was even possible. The roads were cracked as though a nine-point-five earthquake had just ran through the streets, but they made it—albeit shaken up like a couple of maracas.

“Hey, what's up bro?!” Scott said while clasping hands and shoulder-bumping a few people Stiles didn't recognize. He cursed when his ankle was pricked by one of the what seemed like hundreds of thistles dominating the small front lawn. He tread carefully around the rest of the weeds and made his way inside.

The place was packed with people from wall to wall. A tiny living room held a few kegs and the small nook next to it that was meant to hold a dinner table was instead stuffed with a ping pong table for beer pong. He meandered through to the kitchen where the hard drinks were kept and poured himself a mix of the strongest things he could find. He sipped his cocktail while the overly-loud music rattled his brain.

“Stilinski. I thought you kept yourself to the sewers. Surprising to see you here.”

He didn't even need to turn around to know who was belittling him. “What the fuck do you want?”

A young man with short, brown hair styled neatly into an absolutely pretentious quiff and an impressively strong jawline stepped to his side. “You came to MY party, I think I should be asking you that.” Stiles eyed Jackson with the utmost contempt. His deep, purple, button-up shirt—glossy in the sheen of its fine thread—and charcoal pants both flaunted a full-body print of the Louis Vuitton logo and a very gold and very sparkly, diamond-studded Rolex adorned his wrist when he brought a red solo cup up to his lips.

Prick.

“I'm here with Scott.”

“Still following that dolt around like a puppy, huh?”

“Someone's gotta keep him out of trouble.”

The slightest of chuckles slithered out from Jackson's full lips.

“The only thing that can keep that ape out of trouble is a collar and a lead.”

“Voicing your fantasies again, Jackson?” Stiles quipped, taking a gulp of his drink, hoping for it to save him from the presence of that well-dressed snake. He watched Jackson flare his nostrils and flutter his jaw in annoyance.

“Go easy on the drinks, some of the shit here is worth more than your pathetic life.” He backed away into the crowd.

Somehow, Stiles didn't doubt that.

After finishing off the last of his drink, he went back to the kitchen to pour more. Scott had spent most of his time playing beer pong in the living room—completely ignoring Stiles—until Alison arrived. Though he had never met her, seeing the very out-of-place, goody two-shoes girls awkwardly standing next to Scott, he could only assume one was Allison. Stiles felt his heart sink when they came over to him—though more out of annoyance than anxiety.

“Stiles, this is Allison.” Scott said while gesturing to the fair-faced brunette. She extended her hand and Stiles took it. Her hands were soft but her hand shake was firm. Stiles balled his fingers into a fist and flexed them out again to alleviate the discomfort from her crushing grip. Scott introduced the homely-looking blonde with her as well, but Stiles didn't even bother pretending to care what her name was.

“It's nice to meet you.” Allison said. Her voice was smooth and soft. It sent a tingle down Stiles' spine. He just smiled at her. “Uh...So you're friends with Scott?”

Scott chose to jump in, not waiting for Stiles to answer. “Oh yeah, we've been best friends since we were little!” He said with a touch more excitement than Stiles would have preferred. He buried his face in his cup when all the small talk started, nodding every now and then. The blonde was chattering at him when Scott and Allison started making out. He didn't hear a word she said.

“I gotta go-” He tried to think of an excuse, but couldn't find one. “I gotta go...” He swallowed down the last of his second cup and haphazardly tossed it over his shoulder while he walked away. She huffed in annoyance, but Stiles didn't care. 

After some searching, he found the entrance to the stairway leading to the basement. The music from upstairs was muffled down there, instead a low-playing trap song hung in the smokey basement air. It looked like all the stoners were down there. Stiles liked it much better. Way less crowded with a chill air about it. He scanned the room, spotting Carlos and his gang sitting by a few hookahs in the corner.

“Hey.” He said, sitting in the empty spot next to Carlos. He shifted, looking a little uneasy at Stiles' proximity. 

“Aye, 'mano.” He said. The others greeted him and a scruffy-looking man with a tatted face offered him the hose. He accepted, taking a deep hit and blowing out the smoke. That shit was thick.

“Whachu up to?” One asked as he passed the hose to his left.

“Absolutely nothing. Scott ditched me for some chick.”

A few of them nodded, knowingly. The hose was passed around a few more times before Stiles was a little tired of the tobacco's peach flavoring.

“You got any weed?” He asked Carlos. 

“I ain't a Pez dispenser, vato, but Jackson got some.” He pointed to the table on the other side of the basement. Stiles tiptoed around some other people sitting in a circle of bean bag chairs and took a joint from the impressive selection. The next hour or so floated by while Stiles listened to Carlos and his friends talk about...whatever. They all were speaking Spanish, and, while Stiles knew some, it was too fast for him to follow. Even if he could, Stiles was so lit he could barely understand anyone anyway. A few giggles at nothing kept him engaged enough.

More time rolled by and Scott was nowhere to be found. Stiles was getting pretty drunk on top of it all after his second shot of tequila and third cup of unknown magic juice. Upstairs was popping off, all the people jumping to the music. A huge whoop of excitement followed a loud crash as someone body slammed a folding table. Stiles saw the ugly blonde flirting with a dude by the kitchen.

“Heywhere'sScott?...” His words were a little slurred. Not bad, though, especially after everything he'd had earlier. She looked at him with indignation.

“He went upstairs with Allison.” She raised her eyebrows, trying to signal something that Stiles just, for the life of him, could not understand. Maybe he was a little out of it... He saluted her, sloppily, and headed upstairs to look for him.

There were a few rooms. One had the door completely ripped off, the other held three half-clothed people making out on the floor while the bathroom next door had a line out the door, so Stiles tried the room down the hall. He opened the cracked door just a little, revealing the moon-pale skin of Allison with her top off and Scott locked in a fury of a teeth-gnashing make out session. His hands cupped her full breasts as they did.

“Heyoooo!” Stiles blurted out, completely out of it.

Allison broke off the kiss and gasped, covering her exposed breasts with her arms.  
“What the hell?!” She exploded. Scott's hooded, lust-filled eyes found Stiles awkwardly standing in the doorway. Allison started to pick up her shirt and bra in a rush.

“Hey, what are you doing?” He asked, grabbing her wrist and trying to pull her back to him. She wrenched herself from his grasp. 

“This was a mistake.” She kept her head down, not looking at Stiles.

“What? C'mon, its fine, we'll just tell him to go.”

“Naomi said this was a bad idea for a first date and I should have listened.”

Scott groaned, moving to head her off at the doorway. She pulled Stiles into the room to get passed him and he stumbled a bit, being thrown off balance. Scott took her hand after she slipped her shirt on, stopping her from leaving. His other hand fumbled with the massive tent in his pants, trying to relive the uncomfortable pressure.

“Hey, come on, its fine.”

Again, she twisted from his grasp. “I'll see you at work, Scott.” And with that, she fled down the hall and down the stairs, out of sight. Scott stood looking out from the doorway in disbelief.

“Bummer...” Stiles said. Scott spun around, nearly charging for him. Forceful hands collided into him and he toppled to the ground.

“What the fuck Stiles?!” Scott was mad, Stiles could clearly tell. “I had that!”

Stiles held up his hands as Scott loomed over him. “Hey, it wasn't my fault!”

“The hell it wasn't!” He reached down, grabbing Stiles' shirt and hoisting him up.

“I didn't mean to interrupt, I was just looking for you. You ditched me, man!”

“So I could fuck, bro! What the fuck?!” He shook Stiles aggressively, making him dizzy and a little nauseous and then threw him to the ground again.

Stiles watched as he stepped to the door and slammed it shut. “Sorry, man.” He came back to Stiles, picking him up again and throwing him on the old, queen-sized, spring mattress.

“You fucking owe me!”

Stiles' reaction time was a little slowed, so it took him a moment to register that Scott was over him trying to unbutton his pants. “What? Hey-” He tried to object and sit up to stop Scott, but a knee was pressed down on his chest to stop that while Scott unzipped his pants. Stiles felt himself get flipped over like a rag doll and his pants and boxers were roughly pulled down in three forceful tugs. His skin was a little burned by the friction of the jean fabric being pulled against his legs.

“Hey, stop.” He demanded, weakly. It was awkward trying to maneuver his arms around his back to try and move Scott's arm that kept him pinned to the bed. 

“Shut up...” Scott said, gruffly. His whole torso came down over Stiles' back, pinning him in place of his arm, while he worked to undo his own fly. A cold chill slid under Stiles' skin as he realized what was about to happen. Fuck.

“Scott, please!” he begged, trying to push up with his arms. Scott was just too damn heavy.

“Shut the fuck up!”

Stiles felt Scott's stiff cock press against his bare cheeks as he ground his hips against him. Breathy huffs and moans assaulted his ear when Scott bit at his earlobe. Stiles' legs curled up, trying to wriggle his body out from under his heavy pressure, but it was no use. He felt his cheeks pull apart and the blunt head of Scott's cock rub against his hole. It was slick with precum. 

Stiles was no stranger to Scott's dick, they'd been fooling around since eighth grade, after all. The thing was, Scott was probably the biggest guy Stiles had ever been with. He measured once in high school at a whopping eight-and-a-half inches, though Scott bragged that it was a full nine. Regardless, he was thick. Very thick. In the past, Stiles had to prepare extra well just to take that monster. A luxury he wasn't given now.

He gritted his teeth when he felt a push. He was in no way relaxed, so the fat head needed some extra force to open him up. Scott thrust down a few times, throwing the full weight of his body in it just to break through the tight ring. Stiles cried out when he felt just the tip of the head head pop in. He threw his arms back trying to punch Scott in the ribs, but one huge mitt of a hand bunched around both of his own and pinned them to the bed above his head.

“Scott, stop, it hurts!”

No response.

In the back of his mind, Stiles hoped someone could hear him, but at listening to the loud music and cheers and screams from downstairs, he knew that was impossible. Scott pulled out to rub the leaking cum down his shaft to slick it up before pushing back into him. This time, the head made it all the way in, his hole closing around the lip. Scott moaned as he continued to slide in. The burn was indescribably hot as his thick cock stretched open his unprepared hole. He was a little loose from all the work he had in the past two days, but that wasn't enough to take Scott without lube.

Tears started to pool in his eyes and he ground his teeth together. Inch by inch Scott continued to sink in. He pulsed his hips back and forth, trying to wiggled himself into Stiles. Eventually, he felt Scott's thick pubes pressing against his ass as he finally bottomed out. Stiles thanked whatever God there was—though he seriously doubted there was any—that Scott took a moment to nip and the back of his neck. It was too soon, though, when he started to move again.

He growled as he pulled out. The drag of his shaft felt like it was going to take out Stiles' guts altogether. When just the head was squeezed tightly in its warm sheath, Scott thrust in again, slowly. The tears dripped down Stiles face as he took Scott as best he could. Pump. Pump. Pump. Scott took a steady pace with it at first, really working his hips, gyrating and pulsing for his own pleasure. After a few minutes of that, Stiles began to loosen up more. 

Scott could feel that, and quickened his thrusts. Stiles felt guilty when a moan escaped his lips. Scott growled. “You like that, you fucking slut?” Stiles whimpered when he pounded down, pressing his hips forward and holding them against him. His hips moved in an agonizingly slow circle, stretching Stiles even further on his trunk of a cock.

Scott freed his hands, but then pinned his arms to his sides as he wrapped a beefy arm around Stiles' chest. It felt as though an anaconda was crushing him as his torso was lifted a little off the bed. Scott began pounding into him, mercilessly. 

Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!

He couldn't help his pathetic cries. After he got used to the size, pleasure came to merge with the pain. His hips ached as they took the full brunt of Scott's forceful thrusts. Eventually, Stiles could hear his breath start to hitch. He sounded like a bear as he roared from the pleasure of Stiles' hot, tight sheath. One huge thrust, two, then three, four—all of them in quick succession at an unbridled pace. Then, Scott exploded. Thick globs shot into Stiles, hot like boiling oil. Scott pushed himself to the hilt, pulsing in as he spurt his load deep inside of Stiles. His roars were even louder than before.

He collapsed over Stiles, the force of which knocking some of the air from his lungs. His face was wet and salty, feeling uncomfortably itchy as it was pressed into the sheets. Scott gasped and wheezed, loudly in his ear, trying to catch his breath.

“Fuck!” He boomed. Stiles winced at the volume. While Scott started to catch his breath, Stiles struggled to catch his own, crushed from his weight. They laid there. Stiles didn't know for how long. After a very difficult time of sucking in breaths as Scott exhaled and taking advantage of the lessened pressure while he did, Scott pushed up off of him. Stiles gasped, feeling the oxygen return to his body and the slide of Scott pulling out his softening member. He heard him zip up his pants behind him, but he couldn't move. The cum seeped from his battered hole and ran down his thigh onto the sheets.

“I'm going to get a drink.” Scott said. 

Stiles didn't answer.

He felt Scott's hand cup the back of his head. It was gentle. “Hey, I'm going to get a drink. Find me when you're ready to go.”

A beat passed. “Okay...” He sniffled a bit. Scott pet the back of his head a few times before he turned to leave.

Stiles laid there, face down, just breathing. His ass hurt. His head was sloshed. His hips ached. 

Fuck. 

After a while, reality came crashing back into him. He stood up, wincing when he moved, and pulled his pants up. He limped a little towards the door and headed down the stairs—they were a fun little challenge with the state his rear was in. He pulled up his hood, not wanting Scott to see him leave, or, rather, not wanting to see Scott.

He ignored the pricks of the thistles as he stormed through the yard and weaved around some drunks outside. He made it a few steps down the crumbling sidewalk when he folded over, vomit pouring from his mouth. He rode out a few heaves and coughed through his sick. Without even a moment to recover, he set off into the unknown.

Stiles wasn't exactly sure where in the city he was. He walked for a while until he came out of the residential areas and into a more business centered one. There were some people walking down the streets to accompany the cars that were passing by. The lights pierced into Stiles' vision. They seemed to be just a little too bright, disorienting him on his way to...wherever.

Time seemed more drunk than Stiles. Seconds turned to hours, minutes to seconds, hours to minutes. A lump formed in his throat, making it difficult to swallow. A few odd looks from passersby made his chest tighten. Too many eyes. Too many lights.

Too much.

He stopped, ducking into a short alley between two buildings, leaning against the icy-cold wall to steady his breath. The cold night air dried the moisture on his face, making his skin feel tight. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, lighting one up and sucking in a drag like it was his life line.

Fuck Scott.

FUCK SCOTT!

More tears leaked from his eyes, his brow pinched tightly together in anger. Stiles hated this, hated feeling helpless. Hated feeling...dirty. Maybe he deserved it. Could he really blame Scott when he used his own body for cash and treated himself like shit? It was only logical that Scott treat him the same way. Like a doll.

Like a thing.

“Stiles?”

He was almost unsure if he was hallucinating hearing his name until he looked up. The silhouette of a man—thick, sturdy—stood just on the edge of the pavement as it turned into the alley. His strong shoulders and the stark lines of his body were framed nicely by the walls of the building, light pouring in behind him from the street lamps. He looked familiar... Those eyes...

“Derek?”

He moved closer to Stiles. The delicate, silken look of a white button-down shirt was broken by a slim gray-and-black-striped tie down the center of his chest. His hair was very neatly combed up, making the dusting of stubble on his handsome face seem somehow incredibly professional.

“What are you doing here?”

Stiles looked away, wiping the tears from his eyes while trying to seem inconspicuous by hitting another drag from his cigarette.

“Are you alright?” Derek's tone was soft. Stiles almost winced, expecting to hear pity bubble up in his words. It didn't.

“I'm fine.” He wasn't.

Derek didn't seem to buy that either. He scanned Stiles' face, seeing the stains from his tears, but when he looked to his neck, his lips turned down. Gentle fingers brushed over the bruising on his throat. Stiles flinched and pulled away.

“Hey, fancy seeing you here.” His shaky voice betrayed him.

“Stiles, are you alright?” Derek's tone was stern this time.

He huffed smoke out his nose and sighed, gathering his thoughts. “Peachy. Nice night for a walk, you know?”

Derek was silent.

Stiles followed his gaze to where his eyes were fixed on his wrists. He reached down and picked up Stiles' arms, examining them. Stiles pulled them away, wincing when that made Derek's fingers press into the sensitive bruising there as well.

Stiles couldn't look at him, choosing to suck on his cigarette in place of offering any explanations.

“Right.” he dragged out, stomping on the burnt-down bud, “Well, good seeing you I guess.” He went to move, but Derek blocked his way. “Can I get by?”

“Do you wanna get something to eat?”

“What?” 

Derek spoke a little slower. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

“I, uh...” Stiles rubbed the back of his head. 

“You got somewhere to be?” Derek asked with a tinge of witticism. He got him there. Stiles slacked his mouth. 

“I guess not.”

“Come eat with me.”

Stiles still seemed a little unsure. What was his angle? Derek rolled his gold-flecked eyes. He placed a hand on Stiles' back and led him out of the alley. The light of the streets flooded back into his eyes.

“This way, we'll take my car.” His hand stayed on him, sinking down to his lower back as he led him into a parking garage not far away. Stiles laughed when Derek gestured for him to get in a sleek-looking gold and white Tesla Model X. The seats looked custom-colored with a strong ashy gray and were so soft and cushy when Stiles slid onto them. The engine was so quiet that Stiles didn't even realize the car was on until they started rolling away. 

The drive was mostly in a—surprisingly—comfortable silence. Stiles watched Derek command the wheel with a single hand, spinning it with ease as he drove down the streets. His steely gaze kept focused on the road, risking only one or two glances to Stiles. They pulled into the parking lot of an old-style diner. Stiles could see the inside was all but empty aside from a waitress tending to one old bearded man at the bar.

“Really?”

Derek shrugged. They were told they could choose anywhere they liked by the waitress, so Derek took them to a small booth in the far corner.

“What can I gettcha boys to drink?” The middle-aged woman asked, brushing a loose lock of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear.

“Water, please.” Derek said.

“Uh, I'll get a water too, I guess.”

“Can't go wrong.” She joked while placing some menus in front of them. “Be back with those waters.” She winked at Stiles.

He narrowed his eyes while studying Derek who was flipping through the menu without care. In the good lighting of the diner, Stiles could really soak in the full image he was sporting. He was clad, head to toe, in business wear. Pressed black slacks, his white shirt, a tie. Sneaking a peak under the table Stiles bit his lip at seeing he wore the same tan work boots, contrasting heavily with the rest of his outfit.

“What's going on here?” He asked. Derek's eyes flicked up to meet his from behind his menu.

“You like breakfast food?”

A small flame of excitement flickered in his chest. Was this an all day breakfast diner? He picked up the menu and read the glaring 'Breakfast Any Time” on the front. Fuck yeah! Derek chuckled at seeing the excitement wash over him.

“Hey, it's breakfast food, man...” It didn't take him long to choose what he wanted, the biggest plate of eggs, hash browns, sausage, bacon, and a side of pancakes. The waitress came back with their waters and took out a pen and pad. The way that she instantly put her hands on her hips, pen, pad, and all, made it seem like it was just a formality.

“You boys know what you want?”

Stiles answered right away. “Can I get the Wham Platter?”

“Yessir, that's a good one. What about you, hun?”

“I'll have the same.” Derek answered. She smiled, collecting their menus and heading off into the kitchen. The old man at the bar clinked his silverware as he dug into his own food.

“The same, huh? You really that hungry at,” he glanced at the time on his phone, “one-forty-two in the morning?”

“Are you?” Stiles blinked. He sure was. Throwing up sure didn't help, especially when all he had to eat all day was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

He grunted and slumped over, leaning his head on his hand. Derek kept impeccable posture.

Weirdo.

“So what's your story?” Stiles asked, stacking the small containers of jam into a pyramid and then knocking it over repeatedly.

“What do you mean?”

“At the club you were all t-shirt and jeans and now you're...” He gestured to his clothes.

Derek chuckled again. “I'm an architect. Well, an architect and a business man.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“I suppose.”

Stiles pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows.

“What about you?” Derek asked.

Stiles leaned back, resting his hands behind his head. “Well, not much to tell really. I served in the CIA as a top secret agent for a while but got burned a few years back.”

Derek smiled, flashing perfectly aligned, pearly-white teeth. Damn him.

“I'm serious.” He leaned on his elbows. Stiles was a little unsure on how to answer.

“I dunno. I'm just a guy making his way through life as best as he can.”

“Fair enough.” Derek flagged down the waitress for a cup of coffee. Stiles took one too. He poured four packs of sugar in and stirred like a maniac. He grimaced at watching Derek sip his black.

“Eww, you're sick.”

That caused Derek to toss his head back a bit as he laughed. “I like it strong, what can I say?”

The food came and Stiles lit up, his stomach lurching at the heavenly aroma of fresh, steaming eggs and bacon and the full scent of buttered pancakes. He dipped his knife in the ball of extra butter they gave and slathered more on the pancakes, then drizzling them with blueberry syrup. He noticed Derek crinkle his nose as he watched him do that.

“Now who's sick?” Derek jabbed.

“What, you don't like blueberry syrup?!” Stiles asked in genuine disbelief.

“I'm more of a maple man.” He said, pouring a generous torrent of syrup on his own pancakes.

They chatted for a while. Small talk mostly. Stiles saw stars when he dove into the hash browns. So good!...

“So how old are you?” He asked. Derek was in the middle of stuffing a sausage into his mouth.

“Derdyboo.” He said with his mouth full.

“What?”

Derek chewed quickly and swallowed. “Thirty-two.” Stiles nodded his head, sucking down a strip of bacon like a dog. “You?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Oh, you're a little older than I thought.”

“Thanks? I guess?” Stiles wondered just how old Derek thought he was. Maybe that was his kink—younger guys. 

He seemed to be thinking the same because he quickly added, “Uh, not to say that that's a bad thing! Just...you look young.”

“I am young, my man, young and free.” He shoved a huge bite of pancakes in his mouth, rinsing it down with his water.

“So it seems.”

“Do you often pick up young-looking boys on the street and take them for breakfast food?”

“When they look like they need some care.” 

Stiles paused. They locked eyes. Those stupid, gorgeous eyes. “I don't need care.” He emphasized the last word with a heavily mocking attitude.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Derek shrugged and kept eating.

"What are you even doing out right now?"

"Working late."

"Real late..." Stiles trailed off.

Another comfortable silence fell between them. The sound of clicking plates and happy slurps was accompanied by the jingle of the door bell as the old man left. After they both had cleared their plates the waitress brought the check. Stiles reached to grab it but Derek was too quick. He didn't object. They got up and exited. Stiles instinctively lit a cigarette as soon as they stepped outside. 

“Those things will kill you ya know.” Derek stated.

“Yeah, when?” He blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. Derek laughed. 

Stiles smiled. He tried to hide his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. He didn't know why.

“Hey, thanks for the food. I don't need,” he wiggled his fingers, “care, but I appreciate it.” He watched as Derek stepped closer to him. His eyes traced the bruising on his neck again. Stiles' eyes fell to the ground.

“You need a lift home?” Stiles scoffed at that.

'Home'

He looked around, getting his bearings. “Nah, I can get there alright.” He snuffed out his cigarette in the cigarette receptacle.

“Are you sure?”

Stiles nodded. “Thanks again.” He waved, ready to go on his way. Derek took his wrist in hand to stop him, snapping his hand back when Stiles hissed at the pain.

“Can I...Can I see you again?”

Stiles stared at him. “What, like to fuck?”

Derek's whole expression turned down. “No.”

Stiles was confused. “Like, just because?” Derek nodded. Stiles felt a shiver run down his spine. “Uh, I dunno man.”

“What's the problem?”

“That's a little weird.”

Derek turned his head a little to the side like a damn puppy. “Is it?”

“Yeah dude, I'm a whore, what do you expect?”

Derek seemed put-off by that. “You're not a whore.” He said that with such conviction that Stiles was almost inclined to believe him. Almost.

“I fuck dudes for money, what do you think that is, Derek?”

He was silent.

“Anyway, if you'll excuse me-”

“I'll pay!”

Stiles rose his brows. “What?”

“I'll pay to see you again.” His gaze bore into Stiles. 

“I'm not an escort, man.”

“Is it so different?”

Stiles thought about that for a moment—really thought about that. He shrugged. Derek took out his phone and handed it to Stiles. “Give me your number.” Stiles took the phone. Was this guy for real? Derek waited for him, expectantly. Guess so. He entered his number and Derek shot a text to him. It was a coffee emoji. Stiles' lips formed into a smirk.

“Got it?” 

Stiles nodded.

“I guess I'll see you then.”

“Guess so.” Stiles agreed. Derek backed away, his eyes still on Stiles for a few steps before turning and walking to his car.

“I'll text you!” He called before getting in and driving away. Stiles stood there, dumbfounded. What the fuck was all that? He shoved his hands in his pockets and set off for home, unable to keep a smile off his face.


	4. Crows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the wait! I was on vacation. I tried to finish before I went, but wasn't able to complete it to my liking. Anyway, it's here now. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> The themes for this chapter are as follows:
> 
> Prelude in E Minor (op. 28 no. 4) by Chopin
> 
> Prelude in C Sharp Minor (op. 3 no. 2) by Rachmaninoff
> 
> The theme for the overall story is The Snow is Dancing by Claude Debussy

“Hey!” 

Stiles felt someone kick the sole of his foot. He grumbled and buried his face deeper into the sublimely soft cushion beneath him. His mind floated blissfully in the twilight state between sleep and wakefulness as he let his body remain loose, not bothering to so much as crack an eye open.

“Hey, bud, you alive?” His assaulter of peace questioned.

He shifted, his ears opening further to sounds aside from that shrill voice. The rustle of plastic made his senses buzz as he was pulled further out of his twilight by someone grabbing his shoulder and shaking him. “Wha?...” he gritted out. A relieved sigh poured into his ears.

“Thank God, I thought you were dead or something.” Stiles' desire to remain in his bliss was quickly trumped for his greater desire to know who was accosting him. A sliver split between his eyelids, letting in the ugly, harsh rays of the sun. After a moment of adjustment, Stiles saw a short, portly man, dressed in chef's whites and a hat standing with a huge plastic bag, filled with doughnuts and bread, slung over his shoulder. “Hey, listen bud, no hard feelings, but you gotta move on. I'm gonna start on my scones, but if you're out here next break, I gotta call the police.”

Stiles' eyes were fully open now, sipping rather than drinking in his surroundings. It was early. Or was it?... He was laid over a pile of garbage stacked next to a slime-coated dumpster in an alley. A rotten banana peel slipped from his cheek when he lifted his head and the smell of old, spoiled fruits and pastries snaked into his nostrils. The man gave him a warning raise of his brows before he went back into a door across from him.

Stiles stood, brushing some gunk that had stuck to his clothes away and taking out his phone to check the time—seven in the morning. He took a moment to flip off the door, willing with all his might that the pig-man chef could feel his disdain through the brick walls. He peeked inside the dumpster, ripping open the trash bag the man just tossed and taking a few stale glazed donuts before starting his way back on the road.

He remembered last night. His time at the party. Scott... Derek. He didn't want to go home. Didn't want to see Scott. He supposed he should feel lucky that he was given a peaceful night's sleep in the garbage. The feeling of his teeth sinking into the stiff yet still soft fluff of his doughnut was like an orgasm. He wasn't too hungry, but it was nice to eat something solid while he made his commute back home.

He took the time while stopped by a light at an intersection to down his last bite of doughnut. He really didn't want to go home. Seeing Scott was the absolute last thing he desired. But he had nowhere else to go... 

And so began Stiles' great plan of avoidance. He spent most of his time wandering aimlessly on the streets, only risking going home when he knew Scott worked. Over the next few days he spent a lot of his night time at the club, working. A few men here and there. Business had really slowed. He checked his phone every morning. No texts from Derek. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised.

Tuesday he spent at the park, getting high in the bathrooms by the playground. 

Wednesday he haunted a coffee shop for a few hours and then skipped rocks on the lake. It was a fun game to try and hit the ducks. Fuckers always seemed like they were laughing at him.

Thursday he got sloshed to hell, downing a whole bottle of RumChata, and that was just for starters. He was almost too drunk to make it out of the house before Scott got home. Almost. Luckily for him, he had developed the skills of a high-functioning alcoholic.

Friday—well he honestly didn't remember Friday, but he made bank.

By the time Scott's day off had rolled around again on Saturday, Stiles had almost forgotten about what had occurred, blurred in a haze of drunkenness and pills and weed. He woke early, already used to trying to beat Scott. He padded into the kitchen and fried some eggs—the last two. His head was hammering hard, so he didn't even notice when Scott strolled in, going straight for the coffee-maker.

“Where the fuck have you been, man?” He asked. Stiles could feel his eyes on the back of his head.

“Around.”

“I feel like it's been more than just 'around', I haven't even seen you for a week!” Scott poured some water into the chamber in the back.

“You making enough for me?” Stiles asked. 

“Dude, seriously, where have you been? I was getting worried.”

Stiles doubted that very much. He slumped down on the couch with his eggs and two pieces of toast he had made and slathered with butter.

“I said I was around.”

Scott stared at him from the kitchen as the coffee machine began to slurp and spout its dark, life-giving nectar. He almost did look concerned. Stiles felt a little uneasy at that.

“Hey, listen, man...If this is about what happened at the party...”

Stiles felt his stomach drop, eggs, toast, and all. He could practically feel the color drain from his face. Scott looked like he noticed as well.

“Don't.” Stiles stated, simply and firmly.

“But I-”

“Scott.” He wasn't sure if it was his icy tone that gave him goosebumps or if it was something else... “Seriously, don't.”

Scott stared at the ground, his head hanging low. “I'm sorry...”

Stiles didn't know what to say. He was tired of avoiding Scott, otherwise he wouldn't be sitting on the couch right now. “Okay.” he decided on saying. He wasn't. It wasn't. But it would end their conversation. Scott seemed to accept that as forgiveness because he was soon chatting Stiles' ear off about how he convinced Allison to give him a second chance and how their lunch date went really well. Stiles tuned it out.

He stepped outside to smoke a cigarette, lighting it up and rubbing his hands from the chill. His eyes flicked up to a crow perched on the power line that ran down the street as it cawed. Its beady little eyes seemed fixed on him, staring down its beak and then moving its head in that fucking weird way that birds do to look at him side-on. He sneered as it cawed at him again.

He took out his phone at hearing the chime of a notification and stared at the screen. 'Derek', it read with a pair of boots emoji at the end. He felt a dull web of electricity zap under his skin, skipping over his whole body as the steam and smoke from his shallow breaths billowed across the screen. His thumb gently swiped across the display, unlocking his phone.

+hey stiles+ It read. No punctuation. No capitalization. Stiles was stunned. A week—a whole week of hearing nothing—and then this. He couldn't believe it. His heart pumped faster when he sent his reply.

-hey-

A few seconds later a response came.

+what's up+

-just chilling in Ibiza dodging agents-

+oh+ 

Stiles' heart skipped, quickly adding, -just kidding man, what's up-

+you busy later?+

-I'm as free as a bird- The crow cawed, flapping its wings in anger when Stiles chucked a rock at it.

+I wanna see you again+

+tonight+

+if that's+

+you know+

+cool+

His fingers flew across the keyboard.

-yeah, what time?-

+five+

+you own any fancy clothes?+

-what do you mean?-

A few seconds passed.

+anything semi formal?+

-not at all-

+we can get you something+

Stiles was seriously confused. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet, trying to warm himself up.

-what for?-

+a business thing+

+I need a date+

Stiles paused before lighting up a second cigarette. He puffed out while clutching it in his teeth and typing.

-a date?-

A long wait before a response came.

+you'll get payed+

An icy feeling crept up from his fingertips as he stood staring at the message. The end of the cigarette clenched between his teeth burned to ash and blew away as it caught a small breeze. Tiny, orange, glowing embers twisted up like miniscule, burning fairies. His numbing nose twitched as he thought of a response.

-I suppose I can do that- Was all he came up with.

+Perfect+

+I can pick you up around 3+

+where do you live+

Stiles didn't like that. For some inexplicable reason, deep in his core, he felt embarrassed about Derek seeing the neighborhood he lived in—especially knowing he drives a Tesla. It was odd, Stiles never cared what anyone thought. He jumped back a few steps when the crow dove down to the ground right in front of him. It cawed endlessly as Stiles kicked at it, trying to get it to stop harassing him, while quickly typing out a response.

-not so fast, I'm not so sure I wanna give you that info-

+you afraid I'm some crazy serial killer? :)+

The edge of Stiles' lip tugged up at seeing Derek's hand-typed smiley emoji like he was some kind of old man.

-something like that- He joked.

He sucked in a huge drag to finish off his cigarette, huffing out the smoke while he charged the crow in an attempt to scare it off. No luck. He flicked the still smoldering bud at it, causing it to ruffle it's feathers at him. What was it's problem? He hung back outside while he waited for Derek to answer. After a few minutes of waiting a small pit in his stomach began to grow progressively heavier.

Bling!—A notification.

+should we meet somewhere+

-pick me up at the library downtown-

+sounds good+

+3 o'clock+

+don't be late+

+we'll discuss your price later+

Again, Stiles stared at the screen.

His price.

A breathy laugh was forced from his mouth, though it was completely devoid of humor. The crow pecked at his discarded bud.

-k-

And that was that.

He swiped one last half-hearted kick towards the crow before heading back inside. The rest of his morning was spent washing and violently scrubbing at his skin. Stiles couldn't shake the feeling of filth, like he was dirty all the time. He wasn't sure just why that was. Of course. Wasn't sure... But enough of the unknown, either way, he rubbed his skin into the red and raw. After that, Stiles decided it would be best to leave Scott behind, ignoring his begging for him to stay. His voice had become nothing more than the leaves rustling in the wind outside—just noise.

His red hoodie smelled so awful that wearing it very well might have undid the cleansing he just went through. Still, it was all he had to break the chill clawing into him from the wind. Three o'clock was near and Stiles made his way to the library, sitting on a bench outside, and smoked a cigarette. He rolled his eyes at hearing more crow caws, looking back to see two seated on the edge of the building, looking down at him.

Fuckers.

“Still haven't kicked the habit I see.” Someone said from his right. Stiles snapped his head around to see Derek. He stood there, looking stupidly good in a long, gray, fleece coat. One hand clutched a wind-blown epaulette, the other sat perfectly in the pocket of his slacks. His hair looked like it had been done up, but was entirely dismantled by the wind.

“Yeah, well, I'm a man of consistency, what can I say.” He said while snuffing out his half-smoked cigarette and tossing it in the garbage a few steps from the bench. Derek chuckled, exposing his teeth. Stiles thought they might actually be pearls based solely from their perfection. He had all but forgotten just how hot Derek was. His clothes sat sublimely over his impressive body, framing him as though he were sculpted as the ideal of men. And yet, even with his perfect teeth and perfect hair and perfect body, he still chose to wear those God-awful, plain, tan work boots. 

“You ready to go?” Derek asked, holding out a hand to him. Stiles felt odd taking it. Their fingers touched and his tingled as Derek's thick, calloused hands wrapped gently around Stiles'. He let Derek lead the way after pulling his hand back as politely as he could. They loaded into Derek's Tesla and sped off into town.

“Where exactly are we going?” He asked.

“We need to pick you up some clothes. The people at the party we're going wouldn't handle your style well.”

Stiles feigned a dead-panned denigration. “I display the height of fashion. I'm insulted.”

Derek chuckled again. Stiles liked that sound.

After only a few minutes of driving in the insane Saturday traffic, they parked, and Stiles followed Derek to a store off the street of the higher-end business district. Derek held the sleek and modern-designed, glass door open for him as he went inside, passing under the large 'Brunello Cucinelli' above the entrance.

The smell was instantly slammed into Stiles. Quality leather, sweet and musky cologne, and the faint tangy scent of metal constructed the bouquet of aromas to accompany the fine suits and shoes and such that were all neatly displayed throughout the store. A man clad in a well-fitted, tight gray suit approached them. 

“Mr. Hale.” He greeted with a handshake. He turned to Stiles to offer a hand to him as well, though obviously less as enthused. “A pleasure having you back again. What can I do for you, sir?”

“I need a suit for Stiles here. Well...” Derek briefly looked Stiles up and down, “A whole outfit, preferably.” Well, no punches were being pulled today, Stiles could see. “We'll be attending Mr. Whittemore's party, so don't spare any expense.”

Stiles froze in place, the wallet he had been fiddling with hanging loosely in his hands. “Wait, like, David Whittemore?” Derek nodded. Great, Jackson's dad... Stiles was beginning to think he should bail before things got weird.

The clerk snatched the wallet from Stiles' hand without any thought towards tact, and placed it back against the glass stand that it had previously stood on. “Very good. We'll start with some measurements.” Stiles felt himself being led away into the back before he even realized where he was supposed to be going. He was told to strip off his bulky outerwear, quick hands beginning their work, taking his measurements soon after.

“When should I be expected to have the suit to you?” The man asked.

“We'll ideally be walking out with one, the party is in a few hours.”

The shocked expression on the man's face was almost enough to make Stiles giggle, but he held it together as best he could.

“I can do my best, but I can't fit a suit on such short notice!”

“Just do what you can, Raymond, I trust your prowess.”

Raymond puffed his chest slightly, seeming to feed off of Derek's compliment.

They spent much time in the store. Stiles browsed the vast selection of blazers and spotted one he liked. It was a dark, dusty red, with deep maroon epaulettes and a neat, pink-lined interior. Raymond nodded at his selection, looking to be pleasantly surprised at Stiles' taste. He quickly gathered an assortment of pants and shoes and shirts to accompany the blazer. 

Eventually they settled on dark-gray slacks with thin, light-gray stripes down the length, and an incredibly soft, blush-pink dress shirt. It fit snugly over Stiles' chest and the material made his skin feel as though he was being caressed by the hands of angels. A pair of very dark blue-purple, leather shoes adorned his feet to match the pocket square that was tucked neatly into his pocket—though the fit was a little tight, crushing his pinky-toes. He said nothing about it. Finally, the overcoat was a simple ox-blood red, rich in hue and made of a decadent, sturdy fleece—just like Derek's.

Stiles ogled himself in the mirror. He looked fucking fantastic. It was impossible for him to hide his smirk. Looking to Derek, he was all shiny teeth and soft eyes—filled with a sparkle—at seeing his look. They moved to the front to check out. Stiles was nearly floored when he read the total. 

Just over fifteen-thousand dollars. He started to bounce his leg feeling the sudden weight of the lavish clothes sitting on his disgusting body. “Derek,” he whispered, “I can't...This is...Derek, no...” Derek waved him off. No words were spoken between him and Raymond, just an exchange of Derek's black card. Stiles was stunned, but followed suit and said nothing.

Damn, Derek was that kind of rich...

The ride to the next location was filled with a weighted silence. Stiles glanced back to his bunched-up clothes in the back seat. He fished his Marlboros from his pocket and slipped them in the inside, blazer pocket.

“You gonna smoke in your new suit?” Derek asked. Stiles just shrugged. That was a good question.

They parked again two streets over and headed into a barber shop. The place smelled like wealth, just as the other store had. Stiles hung up his new coat and sat in the chair, The barber expertly wrapped him in a cape before running hands through his messy, thick hair. The sides were cut short and the top trimmed and styled up and forward to match the newest hair style. Stiles never cared much for any of that kind of crap, but after seeing the finished product in the mirror while wearing his new, fine clothes, he, again, had to admit, he looked damn fine.

On an added note, Stiles had never experienced a hair cut where there was no hair-clippings fallout. Nothing in his ears, down his neck, or in his shirt. Completely itch free. The perks of money, he supposed.

By the time they were finished with Stiles' makeover, it was already time for them to head to the party. Stiles felt very uneasy in the seat next to Derek. Derek turned to him while they waited at a stop light. “Hey, open the glove compartment.” Stiles did. Sitting on top of the paperwork inside was jade-green box, the lid of which bore a golden crown, underneath reading—Rolex.

Stiles' eyes widened. “Derek...”

“This one's not to keep, but I wanted you to have something nice to accompany your handsome self.” He paused. “And something to help cover those bruises. Take it from me, it's better to not have these people see things like that.”

Stiles' blush was deep and hot. His eyes turned down, looking at the fading bruising around his wrists. A tight feeling squeezed around his ribs. Constricting. Choking. He ripped his eyes away from the bruises, slipping the watch on to hide his memories. The shine of the rose gold metal was bright, and the sparkle of diamonds pressed around the hinges twinkled into his eyes, capturing him in a hypnotic trance. The outside was framed with a ring of intricately-cut stones, shining the bright, and obnoxiously loud colors of the rainbow around the black face. It fit perfectly.

“Hey, what exactly are we going to the Whittemore's party for?”

“I'm hoping to speak to David about the building he's selling. With any luck, we can convince him to sell to me instead of those other leeches that will be there.”

“I see...”

The drive out of the city and into the hills surrounding the town was all too familiar, filled with the over-sized homes of the snobbish upper-class. Stiles eyed them as they whizzed by through hooded, non-ebullient eyes. Derek looked at him, side-long.

“Not impressed?” He asked with a degree of drollness. 

“I've been up here before.”

Derek seemed a little put-off by that. “You have?” 

Stiles nodded. “I was friends with David's son, Jackson, for a while when I was younger.”

The look of total shock over Derek's handsome features would have been quite amusing if Stiles wasn't dreading stepping onto the Whittemore estate again. “I see. Well, that gives you an advantage, I suppose.”

“We'll see.”

Rolling up to the gate, the harsh buzz in and the familiar screech of the still rusty hinges of the gate while it opened set his heart off on a marathon. Lamborghinis, Rolls Royces, G Wagons, Teslas, and every other expensive and flamboyant car that Stiles could think of lined the pavement and the side parkway in front of the massive home. Derek pulled up around the fountain sitting in the center of the pavement and stopped in front of a young and eager-looking valet. He laid a hand on Stiles' shoulder when he moved to get out, hopping out himself and running around the car to open the door for him. Internally, Stiles could feel himself begin to implode from awkwardness. He didn't like so much attention on himself. It made him uncomfortable. Derek handed off the keys to the valet and the headed inside.

The bright light that illuminated the inside of the—for lack of a better word—manor was intense as they came in. Derek made it so Stiles' arm was hooked around his after they took their coats off, handing them to another lesser taking everyone's outerwear. Stiles' fingers fidgeted with the fabric of Derek's shirt at his elbow, against his own will. He picked up on Stiles' nerves right away—not that it was hard.

“Hey, everything's gonna be alright, okay? We're just going to mingle and nod, and smile. No big deal.” 

Stiles nodded, not daring to even imagine the drama that could unfold at his presence here. Derek marched Stiles around the room, greeting strangers, each one more decadent than the last. Everyone was dripping in jewels, fine fabrics, and Godly brands that strobed proof of their wealth to anyone who beheld them—a look that matched well with the similar décor of the home. A few of them eyed Stiles as he stood awkwardly on Derek's arm. He was too sharp to not notice.

“Derek.” Stiles heard a deep male voice say. A lump wedged itself in his throat at seeing David Whittemore approach, his son in tow. Jackson's eyes widened and a thick vein protruded from his neck at seeing him there. His father seemed to share a similar attitude, yet less angry and more...well, something.

“Mr. Whittemore, good to see you!” Derek beamed, glowing with a jovial energy. “This is-”

Mr. Whittemore cut him off. “Stiles Stilinski. I never thought I'd see you around here again.” His tone was saturated with a cautious mien.

Stiles rubbed the back of his neatly-clipped head. “Yeah, well, I never thought I'd be here again, either.” Stiles could feel the confused energy spilling out of Derek.

“You two know each other?” He asked.

“Oh yes, Stiles' mother was a close friend of ours.” A small hiccup in the flow of conversation would have been barely noticeable from David if you wouldn't have known the reasoning behind his hesitation. Stiles did, and it bludgeoned him. “It's good to see you again, son.”

Stiles was silent, simply nodding and mustering up as much of a smile as he could. Jackson's eyes were locked on him like a predator's. 

“Are you not close anymore?” Derek asked with a chary note. David swirled his glass of Scotch, the single ice cube clinking on the sides of the fine glass work.

“Unfortunately, Claudia passed away some years ago. Truly a shame.” He sipped his Scotch to hide the waiver in his voice near the end. Derek looked to Stiles.

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” he said. 

Stiles wasn't one for pity. 

Soon enough, the conversation flowed towards small talk and business and Stiles grew increasingly restless under the scrutiny of Jackson. He chose a lull in the conversation to excuse himself to the drink bar.

“Don't go too far.” Derek whispered as he leaned towards his ear before returning with an addition to the talk of European architecture.

Stiles was glad to finally get some alcohol in him—a mojito, much to the chagrin of the bartender. He barely had one sip down when Jackson slithered his way to him.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing here, Stilinski?!” He spat under his breath.

“Oh, me? I'm killing time until the bomb goes off.”

Jackson didn't seem to find the humor. His eyes shifted to where Stiles held his drink, focusing on the shining gems in his watch. “What are you doing? What game are you playing?”

“No game, just here with a friend.”

“I highly doubt Derek Hale is your friend.” Stiles took a brief moment to cement Derek's last name in his memory. Some Googling was definitely in order after this party. 

“Don't like sharing, Jackson?”

He scoffed. “There's nothing to want to share with you, Stilinski. Derek's just another dog barking at the heels of my father.”

“I see.” Stiles noisily slurped his drink, enjoying the increasingly ruffled Jackson. It appeared as though he was about to explode when a gorgeous, golden-haired woman stepped to them, interjecting in Jackson's preamble to a tantrum.

“Jackson, there you are. Who's your friend?” She made for an elegant woman, all curves and lines and valleys in her skin-tight black and gold dress. Her heels were high, rivaling the steep slope of her eyebrow as she leered at Stiles, lasciviously. 

“Stilinski is not my friend!” He immediately hushed his tone when a few nearby heads turned at the commotion. 

The blonde looked taken aback. “So this is the infamous Stiles Stilinski? Well, I never imagined you to be quite this,” she searched for the right words, “dapper from the way Jackson describes you.”

Stiles smirked while watching Jackson nearly unravel. “Jackson talks about me, eh?”

“Oh yes, from time to time.” She extended a hand to him and he took it. It was incredibly soft, but her grip betrayed her attempt at clemency. “He's as much of an ass about it as you're probably thinking. I'm Erica Lahey. A pleasure.”

A genuine guffaw erupted from Stiles. She definitely wasn't afraid to speak her mind. Jackson seemed to have given up.

“Whatever. Is you're brother here, then?”

Her delicate hand pointed towards David and Derek where a tall and very handsome, young-faced man stood talking with them. His wavy, dirty blonde hair sat perfectly atop his head where his own God-like features rivaled Derek's next to him. Derek himself looked a little disgruntled under the height of the unnamed invader. Jackson took off to join them all. Derek caught Stiles' gaze. His eyes seemed to confirm Stiles' suspected annoyance. He returned his gaze with silent empathy at his dismay. Erica clocked their exchange in an instant.

“Mr. Stilinksi, did you accompany Derek Hale here?” She played up the pantomime of fanning herself with her hand.

He sipped more of his minty drink. “I did.”

“Interesting.” Suddenly, she was on him, snaking an arm through Stiles' and walking him towards the end of the massive room through the islands of socializing people. “Isaac is working on behalf of dear old dad, trying to acquire the building Mr. Whittemore is selling. It seems he and Derek continue to be fervent rivals.”

“Rivals?” Stiles asked in an almost dazed stupor, caught up in the intense energy Erica was giving off.

“You don't seem to know much about your date, it seems.”

Stiles felt an odd qualm fizzle up inside him at her calling Derek his date outright. “Yeah, well, I'm new to the scene I suppose...”

“I know. You have all the poise of a car mechanic dressed in the clothes of a playboy. It's not hard to spot a foreigner.” Stiles subconsciously squared his shoulders, causing Erica to giggle. “Oh, I like you.”

Erica's fingers flashed across the screen of her iPhone, the many gold-and-diamond-studded rings on her fingers catching the light and glittering very pleasantly. After which, she tossed her phone back into her compact, black Dior clutch and smirked at Stiles. She snatched a glass of Champagne from a passing waiter and sipped it in silent levity. Stiles shifted on the balls of his feet, uneasy.

After only a minute or so of painful silence and nerve-wracking eye contact, Erica squealed at seeing a fair-faced auburn-haired woman approach them. “Lydia!” She exclaimed.

“Erica, my God!”

The two of them exchanged a tenuous embrace, kissing each other's cheeks.

“How was France?”

The red-head rolled her eyes. “As beautiful as always.” She huffed out a tiny sigh as she continued on, “Meaning it was just as boring as always.”

Erica giggled. “Oh, stop, love.” They both shared smiles at what Stiles could only assume was some kind of upper-class inside joke. Erica turned her attention back to Stiles who was wishing he could disappear in a puff of smoke.

“Take a guess as to who this is.” Erica chirped. The woman, Lydia, looked him up and down. Her eyes trailed a heat over every inch they passed over. Stiles felt his shoulders hunch and his arms cross over his chest in a subconscious attempt at protecting himself from the power of her studious gaze.

“I admit, I'm stumped.”

Erica placed a bracing hand on her shoulder. “It's Stiles Stilinski!”

Immediately, Lydia lit up, the two exploding into a fit of laughter. Stiles wasn't sure how to take that—or how to take them, rather. They were like caricatures of wealth.

“Well that is a surprise, I never expected him to come this way.”

“He's here with Derek Hale!”

More laughter.

“What a prize! Though I'm not sure for which one, they're both so handsome.” Lydia studied him a moment more. “Though I suppose he could use a little help with that darkness under his eyes.” Stiles' hand moved up to prod at the dull circles under his eyes.

“I'm not a prop, I'm a person—one who's standing right here! Don't talk about me like I'm not here!” Stiles snapped. He never possessed much tact and didn't plan on displaying any in the presence of those who seem to be mocking him.

They were unbothered, instead sharing a look. “Oh, I think I'm going to like you.” Lydia said. Before Stiles knew it, he was being led off again by both of them, maneuvering through more people and around a few corners to a lavish bathroom. Stiles had been here before, but it seemed the old jade and marble look had been refurbished for gold and marble. Still, it was a grotesquely-pretentious look.

Lydia reached into her own small, green clutch—to match her green dress printed with leaves and vines wrapping around her slender frame—and pulled out a stick of Chanel concealer. “You're about my shade.” She said, dabbing some cream under Stiles' eyes. He was immediately repelled.

“What are you doing?!” He attempted to wipe off the gunk, but his hand was swatted away by Erica.

“She's trying to brighten-up your face. Now sit still and let her do her work.”

Stiles felt helpless as Lydia continued. These two women were difficult to deal with. Though he supposed they weren't causing him any harm. Still... When she was finished, she turned Stiles to the mirror. He was pleasantly surprised to see the dark circles under his eyes had disappeared. His visage was stupendous. His new hair cut, his suit, the makeup. He looked like he might actually be able to blend with the socialites in the other room. That is, if his tongue didn't get him into trouble.

“You look very handsome.” Lydia cooed, adjusting his epaulette and pocket square.

“You'll be spending the evening with us. No objections now, we insist.” Erica said. And that was exactly what happened. 

Erica and Lydia were both quite agreeable once you got past their vivacious attitudes. Derek passed by a few times between his networking, each time more surprised by the glow that Stiles was giving off. His hands would gently touch him here and there. A shoulder, his back, a brush of their fingers. It was just as intoxicating as the third mojito Stiles was in the midst of downing.

He clocked the room amongst it all, scanning for potential clients—of which there were many. He seemed to be quite the hot commodity, many seeking information on him and asking questions that Stiles reveled in answering in increasingly ridiculous ways. 

“Careful, you're representing Derek, after all.” Lydia whispered to him with a wink. He pulled back a little after that. 

Most interestingly, however, was Isaac, who, at spying Stiles from across the room, kept throwing glances his way. Derek seemed none-the-wiser to any of the perusing Stiles was getting up to. He preferred to keep it that way. A quick smoke break was necessary or Stiles was going to explode. Erica and Lydia joined him, bumming two cigarettes. Erica sprayed a small bottle of perfume on them all to mask the scent when they returned. Eventually, the night led Stiles and the girls back to David and Derek and the others. They slipped into the group rather easily.

“Erica, how has you're night been?” Derek asked, his eyes shifting between Stiles and where her arm rested around his.

“It's been quite wonderful, actually. Good atmosphere and good company make easy work of that.”

“I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Isaac Lahey.” Isaac said, reaching his hand towards Stiles. He took it. Isaac's hand was large and warm. His grip was tender, yet firm, but it lingered just a beat longer than it should have. His eyes bore into Stiles, his expression ever so slightly laced with a faint hunger that Stiles knew all too well. Derek shifted, sipping his drink with an unreadable expression.

“Stiles.” He said, “Stiles Stilinski.”

Isaac looked shocked. “Oh, Stiles! I see!”

A flush threatened to intensify on Stiles' cheeks. “It looks like I'm pretty popular around here.” he deadpanned.

David clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That would come from your mother. You possess the same magnetic presence that she did.” He smiled, weakly.

More talking unfolded while Stiles was content to just sip the last drops of this mojito. Europe again, some talk of past business dealings, talk of charity, and such. The conversation skated its way to music, classic, opera, and then classical.

“Derek, why don't you play us a song?” David said.

Stiles looked to him. Play? Derek put up his hands in protest. “I couldn't possibly. I've been drinking after all.”

“Nonsense, you're lovely at piano, always have been!” David insisted, leaving no room for objections.

Piano?

Derek nodded, placing his drink down and walking toward the grand piano that sat to the side near the live string band. David hushed and gathered the guests as Derek sat down, lifting the guard and positioning his feet.

He placed his fingers on the keys, waited for a moment, and then pressed down. A triad of full-bodied, drawn-out chords echoed in the room, instantly, drawing the mood into the vibrations of the strings inside the massive black piano. His hands gently moved over the keys, playing more and more chords, progressing up and down, high and low, gaining intensity. Stiles listened with a slack-jawed awe.

Around the room, the guests were as still as statues, like everyone was frozen in time. There was no sound aside from the rich stew of emotion that was being created from Derek's skill. A small lull in the chords and then a soft string of notes spilled over into the air, falling down like a waterfall and over all who were listening. Stiles felt a chill in his core, his body beginning to shake ever so slightly.

“What is this?” He whispered to Lydia.

“Prelude, by Rachmaninoff, in C sharp minor, by the sound of it. Beautiful...”

It was—beautiful. And haunting... Stiles felt a creep of that chill extend out to his limbs. In his mind, he couldn't stop memories from rushing through. Events from the past week flooded him, threatening him with a torrent of emotion. He couldn't stop a few tears from falling from his eyes. He fidgeted with the Rolex covering his bruising. When the salty and cool feeling of the tears began to irritate his cheek, he wiped his face. Erica looked back at his movement, casting a confused look over him. He barely even registered her as the maelstrom of feelings raged within him. Finally, Derek played the last chords. Solemn, melancholy, haunting... 

The room erupted with clapping and cheers when he finished. Smiles and whistling and congratulations were all thrown towards Derek. Stiles was overwhelmed, though he wouldn't dare say why. He immediately retreated, heading for the bathroom.

Inside, the sounds of the party returned to normal, but the roar of blood rushing through his ears was louder than anything. Stiles tried to steady his breathing. The tears ran streams through the concealer under his eyes. He wiped it off, revealing again the dark circles under his eyes.

And there it was. His truth.

He was some doll, a toy to be dressed up and paraded around. He was still him. Still trash, under it all. A knock came on the door. It opened before Stiles could correct his mistake at not locking it. Erica and Lydia shoved their way in. He hid his face from them.

They said nothing. Lydia wiped off Stiles' face and reapplied the concealer and Erica muddled through her purse pulling out a small baggy filled with white powder.

“You need a little pick-me-up.” She said. She dipped one of her long, pointed pinky nails in and scooped up some powder. It sat in her expensively, manicured nail and she offered it to Stiles. He didn't even think, just huffed up the bump form her nail. He winced at the sting, shaking his head. That was a fucking kick! Erica and Lydia did the same.

“We're taking you out. Let's get fucked up.” Erica said with a deranged smirk.

Fuck yeah.


	5. Crows, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's certainly been a while. I have no excuse and no shame, but I'm sorry for not posting for so long. Life always pulls me away. Anyway, please enjoy this chapter.
> 
> The themes for this chapter are as follows:
> 
> Dark Age by REZZ
> 
> All of Me by Billie Holiday
> 
> Arabesque No. 1 by Claude Debussy
> 
> The theme for the overall story is The Snow is Dancing by Claude Debussy

It was easy, slipping out of the manor. Derek, along with all the guests, were much too preoccupied in the other room. Stiles followed the confident stride of Lydia's clacking heels to the front foyer. Two of the coat hands that were in the midst of a rather intimate moment snapped to attention at seeing them approach. Stiles smirked, yet the girls were content to ignore the interaction. They collected their outerwear and quickly slipped out the door before anyone could impede their escape.

They opted to pile into Lydia's sleek, black Aston Martin AMR over Erica's two-seating, gold Lamborghini. With the growl of the engine coming to life, they sped down the driveway and out the gate to the city. Lydia laid heavily on the pedal, weaving her way through the slower peasants in their ugly, metal-heap wagons. Stiles hung out the window, howling a loud “WOOO!” into the wind. 

The coke was really hitting him. Sitting in the car was making him antsy, jittery. Luckily Lydia drove like a bat out of hell, lit from the ass with hell fire. It seemed to Stiles that they were there in a blink of his eyes. Wherever there was... He snapped his gaze up to the large letters above the overweening modern building—La Tana, it read.

He hopped out, bouncing on the balls of his feet and rubbing at his dry, raw nose. Lydia came around and tossed her keys to a valet without so much as a glance, and Erica—well, she was all legs and sex as she glided from her seat into the cool night air. A few lust-hungry men standing in a line outside the club leered at her as she swung her curvy hips in time with Lydia and him as they entered the club. It was nice being rich—no waiting list.

The place was crazy. Lazers, smoke, music that rattled the foundations of the pretentious building and its overly-expensive décor. Stiles would have felt out of his depth if it weren't for that familiar smell in every club—sweat, booze, and sex. He bobbed to the music as he followed the girls to a roped-off area overlooking the floor. His eyes zipped between the hunks gyrating their hips on the dance floor. Nothing more than tall, muscular fuck-toys who let their hormones drive their brain. He was alright with that.

The next hour or so was spent with Stiles down on the floor dancing with some men and women. He got some push-back from some macho-men getting weirded out by his proximity, but he didn't let that bring him down. They probably had small dicks, anyway. Besides, he was too high to even process disapproval, he just wanted to have fun. His eyes flicked up to where Erica and Lydia were seated, peering down at him with sly looks and lips on drinks, surrounded by a swath of men vying for their attention.

Eventually, Stiles wound up dancing—well, grinding more than dancing—with a tall, handsome foreign man. Jorgan? Josif? Bah, he couldn't remember. Anyway, they wound up fucking in a stall in the bathroom. He was less than exciting for Stiles, though, so afterward he trudged his way up the swanky, red-carpeted stairs back to the girls as his high began to fade. 

“Enjoy yourself?” Erica asked as he slumped down across from her. Her feet were kicked up in the lap of some man—sans shoes—as he rubbed the bottoms with his thumbs. Her eyebrow arched up, sharp as a dagger, as she sipped her dark, ox-blood red drink.

“Eh.” Stiles could barely muster up the will for an answer beyond that.

“You really are a handsome man. It's a shame you're simultaneously such a sad little boy.” Lydia said, rolling her eyes when Erica swatted at her arm in disapproval.

Stiles didn't respond.

“Go show our boy some love.” Lydia commanded to one of the two muscly men on either of her arms. The pretty one with the the thick hair and wiry scruff scooted over to Stiles. He shifted, leaning against the stranger—he was much too worn out to hold himself up. He felt a little odd when the guy started petting his hair, but he let it slide, because, frankly, fuck it.

“Are you going to tell us what your water show was all about?”

“For God's sake, Lydia, let the man have his privacy!”

“What?! I'm just curious.”

They were difficult to hear over the loud music, so Stiles hoped he could pretend he didn't hear and just ignore the question. No such luck. With a heavy sigh he said “I've known you for a few hours, I'm not exactly wanting to spill my life to you.”

“Suit yourself.” Lydia smirked.

An indistinct amount of time passed of Stiles mindlessly listening to the generic club music in the lap of a stranger, in the company of strangers, surrounded by strangers. He was used to the anonymity of peoples unknown, but he was feeling twitchy around so many tonight. A few times came where he caught his eyes welling up. A quick flick of a finger across his eye made easy work of those annoying feelings rising up to the surface.

“This blows.” He declared, fully down from his high and entirely annoyed.

“It does.” Erica said. She swung her legs down and slipped her heels back on with the forceful aid of one hooked finger. She was damned dextrous, even with those nails on. “Let's go somewhere more relaxing."

“Oh? What exactly do you have in mind, dear?” Lydia quickly tossed her head back and downed the rest of her drink, standing and stretching out her slim frame.

“Relax? You said we were gonna get fucked up.” Stiles said, grumpily.

Erica rolled her eyes. “Oh shut up. Clearly that didn't work out as planned. Let's change it up. We can still smother your sorrows in drugs and booze, just somewhere less...overstimulating.” Stiles groaned. “Come on, you'll enjoy yourself, I promise.”

The girls spent a minute or two picking between which men to invite to wherever they were going, tossing those that fell short aside like mushy bananas. They left and Stiles' mind wandered as they waited for the valet to bring the car around and piled in. Lydia and Erica chatted up front, but he tuned them out. His hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out his phone. Three missed calls, four texts.

Fuck.

He opened the messenger and saw that Derek was the one who texted. Of course, who else?

+stiles where'd you go+

+things are winding down and boring+

Another a few minutes later.

+Hey, did you leave???+ Actual punctuation that time.

One more just a minute after that.

+Hey this isn't what we planned. Call me.+

Stiles stared at the screen, zoning out just a bit.

Fuck.

He decided to ignore the texts as he looked up to see Lydia driving down a gently-sloping road to the docks. “What are we doing here?” 

“We're going to our yacht, darling.” Erica replied. “Well, less our yacht and more my dear old brother's.”

“Christ, Erica, are you still on about that? Isaac won it fair and square. A flip of a coin is less in fate and more in law.” She snickered. Stiles squinted his eyes at her choice of words. These people were out of a book—a Dr. Seuss book...

“Whatever, I should have known better than to gamble with the master. Isaac has more luck than a leprechaun with a fist-full of shamrocks up his ass.”

A small laugh slipped past Stiles' lips.

“Oh, so he comes alive? Are you in our realm again?” Lydia swung wide, zipping into a compact parking spot.

“Sorry, I'm just...thinking.”

They got out into the night air, cooled even further by the fine sea mist. He sucked in the salty scent of the docks, regretting it when the rotten smell of seaweed and garbage filled his nose. A few cars pulled quickly into parking spots of their own, three of the men making it to the docks. It was a wonder anyone could follow Lydia at all with the way she drove. A proper mad-woman.

“Well, darling, we'll put thinking aside for now. Let's just chill.”

Stiles knocked shoulders with the tall, muscular men as they all followed the quick steps of the girls. He was comfortable to hang back, hidden behind everyone else, stealing glances at the dim light of his lock screen. Should he respond? He left so quickly. He felt guilty about not telling Derek where he was going. The maroon fabric of his coat cut a stark line across the pale skin of his wrist in the moonlight. The shining, rainbow gems of the Rolex glistened, their sparkles boring into his brain. He should have said something before he left. He should reply now. But something blocked him. He was such a fucking pussy. 

The compulsion to roll his eyes at seeing the sheer size of the yacht was irresistible. Erica chuckled to herself when she glanced back and caught him. They stepped up the loading ramp and headed straight for the white, cushioned couches sitting around a low table on the deck.

Stiles plopped down, slacking his whole body. He felt like an ogre compared to the way Erica floated down on the seat next to him like a feather. “The boat is Dad's—or, was Dad's. My family likes things big and expensive. It can be...prodigious to new-comers.”

“I can tell.” Stiles said. His ears twitched at the sound of a lighter. Lydia was igniting a joint. Two puffs and the smoke slithered out from between her plump, cherry-red lips and delicate button nose. 

“You, three cabins down is the service storage, get the drink cart and bring it here.” She demanded to one of the men. He begrudgingly complied getting up when the other guy glided his hands around her waist and pulled her close, making her giggle, but he went to get it. Lydia passed the joint down the line, finally reaching Stiles. He sucked in a huge drag. The smoke filling his lungs felt like a sturdy branch to a man swept away in a fast-running river. He held on tight to the buzz.

“Tell me, what is it that you do, Stiles?” Lydia asked through the smoke she was holding in her lungs after the joint returned to her. She blew into the face of the returning man with the drink cart, gently cupping his cheek with her palm. Weirdo.

“Lydia.” Erica chastised.

“No more veils, dear, let's ask what's really on our minds.” Erica hushed up and they all looked to Stiles.

He sat there, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. He contemplated whether or not he should answer. He didn't know how—he had only met these girls a few hours ago—but they had a rather annoying ability to make him spill his guts. “I'm a business man of sorts, though I feel like you already know what kind of work I do given you run with Jackson.”

The girls burst into cackling laughter. “So it's true then!” Erica guffawed, “You and Jackson?!”

Stiles nodded.

“My God, this is rich! I would have given anything to see his face when it all went down!”

Stiles furrowed his brows, sucking in another drag from the quickly-vanishing joint. “It wasn't so amusing in person. That whole situation ruined my family's lives.”

The girls quieted. “Still, Jackson is a special sort. Always needs to be in control, always needs to be right. It figures in the bedroom he would enjoy a little more...restraint.” Erica rose her now trade-marked brow with a smirk. The slightest tug lifted the edges of Stiles' lips.

They all poured themselves some drinks. He opted to stick with straight vodka rather than a cocktail. “So,” Lydia began, stopping to sip the dazzlingly-bright, blue liquid in her glass, “that begs the question, how did you come to get involved with a Mr. Derek Hale?”

Stiles downed a second shot, holding in a rather egregious burp at the cost of a few painful closed-mouth hiccups. “Dunno, met the guy at The Iron Rail.” Stiles doctored the story of the other times they met, not really wanting to bring up his less than stellar last week. “He seemed interested in using my services more as an escort. Don't really do that, but I gave it a whirl.”

“Now that is interesting. Everyone thought Derek was done with the love scene after his wife passed.”

Stiles' stomach flipped. Wife? Passed? What the fuck? Erica clocked the confused expression plastered across his pale features. 

“I take it he didn't mention any of that, did he?”

“No...” 

Stiles' hand slipped into his pocket yet again. His thumb slowly slid to unlock his phone while the girls chatted with the boys they had brought. He reached into his coat's breast-pocket, slipped a cigarette out, and tossed the pack onto the table before mindlessly getting up and walking to the far side of the boat. Lydia's eye's tracked him, side-long, but she said nothing when he used her lighter and disappeared around the corner.

-hey, I'm fine, just had to leave for a bit- He texted to Derek.

It was only a few seconds before he got a response.

+what the hell???+ 

+where did you go?+

His breathing was shallow as he puffed his cigarette.

-I'm with Erica and Lydia at the docks. Sorry I left-

Stiles waited. And waited. No response yet. He leaned against the railing of the slightly, swaying boat and listened to the tide as it lapped against the pillars of the docks. The sea mist dampened his skin and left tiny beads on his coat. He looked over to the docks where two crows pecked at a shiny, metallic wrapper of a gum-stick before snatching it up and being chased off by a curious seagull. They were hard to spot under the light of the half-moon, so he lost track of them as they flew inland.

He sucked in a long drag.

A ding sounded.

+we had a deal+

+you came to the party with me+

Stiles threw his head back and groaned. He hated confrontation, even through screens.

-sorry, man, I just needed to get out of there-

A response before he even locked his phone.

+you have my watch+ Stiles' eyes blurred when he read that.

+forgive me if I don't believe you+

His fingers quickly typed out -fuck you- with a humorless and very pained scoff.

+which dock are you at???+

Stiles didn't respond.

+I can see you read that!+

+what fucking dock are you at?!+

+don't think you can steal from me and get away with it!+

Stiles locked his phone. His face was red and hot as a skillet. He really thought he was going to pawn his watch?! What the fuck?! He flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the water. The heavy trudge of his angry steps pulled the girls' attention to him. He threw back two consecutive shots before slumping back down and kicking his feet up on the table. He knocked over one of the guys' drinks, spilling it all over. “Hey!” he objected. Lydia thrust a towel into the guy's chest and made him wipe it up.

More time passed. Or, maybe it was only a little? Stiles had no fucking idea, he was so in his head. Either way, the thick tension of the heavy flirting that Lydia and Erica were making with the men was broken by a voice of a man from the loading ramp.

“Well, it seems like a party and I wasn't even invited.”

Stiles looked over to see the tall, handsome fellow he saw at the party. His wavy hair and neat coat and shirt seemed a little disheveled. Still, with one hand in his pocket and another on his hip, Stiles' eyes ate up the build of his masculine figure. Large shoulders, thin waist, thick chest. A nice distraction. That was immediately ruined when Stiles locked eyes with Jackson skulking over behind him.

“What the fuck is Stilinski doing here?!” He demanded as he and the tall hunk—Stiles had already forgotten his name—came to sit with the others.

“Oh hush, Jackson, we already know.” Lydia said into her glass, sipping with contempt. The red that stained his chiseled features would have been enough to make Stiles howl with laughter if he hadn't already been in such a bad mood. Jackson snapped his mouth shut, glaring daggers at him. 

“How did the deal go, Isaac?” Erica asked as he came to settle right beside Stiles. His thigh pressed into Stiles' as he let his legs hang open, wide, and slumped his shoulders in defeat.

“Not well. Derek got the prize, again.” His gaze dragged over Stiles' body. The trail he made seemed scrupulous and filled with intent. It seemed Stiles wasn't the only one who enjoyed eating up the build of another man. “Though I suppose he didn't get everything he wanted.” Isaac's smirk sent a jolt right to Stiles' groin. Fuck, he was hot.

“Dear old Dad's not going to be happy about that.”

Isaac's handsome, boyish face turned bleak. “No, he's not.”

The two poured their own drinks and Lydia lit up another joint and passed it around. The wailing of seagulls and cawing of crows sounded off in the distance as the group started to form small cliques in conversation.

“So, what are you all about—Stiles, was it?” Isaac asked. He was close enough for the heat of his breath and the vibrations of his voice to prickle the skin on Stiles' neck.

“The fuck does that mean?” he quipped, blowing thick, skunky smoke out his nose..

“You and Derek, are you an item?” Isaac snatched the joint from his hands, blowing his own smoke out the side of his mouth.

“Not a chance.”

Isaac smirked. “I see. That's good news for me.”

“Is it?” Stiles looked up into his glacier-blue eyes. Rich, hot, and confident. Stiles knew his kryptonite. He was only a man after all, and what could a man do to resist a god?

The night devolved as the group split up around the yacht. Erica and two of the guys giggled their way to a cabin and locked themselves in while the other guy and Jackson played for Lydia's attention. Stiles slipped bellow deck to escape the annoying presence of that sharp-jawed idiot. Downstairs a small pool was surrounded by luxurious, white-satin seats and a small bar back-lit by an illuminated shelf filled with an assortment of expensive-looking alcohol. The bottom of the pool was filled with glass, giving the appearance that the water came straight from the ocean. How fucking rich were these people?

He had been ignoring the buzzing of his phone, checking it now as he sat on a stool and rested his arms on the bar. Four missed calls from Derek. Two texts.

+stiles I'm serious+

+don't make me call the police+

Stiles curled up his lip and tossed his phone roughly onto the wood of the bar.

“Trouble?” He jumped, startled by the voice by the entryway.

“It's nothing.” He said as Isaac sauntered his way to him. The beat of his steps exuded pure confidence. Damn, how can a man even walk sexy? Maybe Stiles was just fucked up... He watched as Isaac's sturdy fingers unbuttoned his coat. He tossed it on one of the small ottomans and perched up on the second stool next to Stiles. Stiles followed suit, less-than-gracefully removing his coat. It felt good, the cool air hitting his skin through his thin, pink shirt.

Isaac leaned against the bar, staring Stiles directly in the eyes. “It didn't seem like nothing.”

He felt a little uncomfortable. And a little turned on. Ugh... “Well, I don't think it's any of your business.”

Isaac held up his hand, flashing his strong, white teeth through a half-lipped smile. “Hey, I'm just a concerned friend.”

“Is that what we are then? Friends?” Stiles leaned back and stretched his arms over his head to ease the tightness in his tired muscles. Isaac's eyes caught the small strip of flesh exposed when Stiles' shirt untucked a little in the front.

“Friends. Acquaintances...” He trailed off, resting a hand on Stiles' thigh. “Maybe something a little closer...”

Another jolt of arousal straight to his groin. But something else too. Down there, bellow deck—alone—he felt a little...scared. Since his bad experience last week he'd fucked a few guys—hell, he'd even fucked that Jonif guy at the club earlier—but they were all out in public. Lots of people around, an easy escape. But here... He felt trapped. His stomach clenched and his breathing came a little faster. The hand on his thigh reminded him of Scott. He swatted it away and stood, quickly. Isaac looked confused, and maybe even slightly hurt.

“Hey, did I do something wrong?”

Stiles didn't answer, he just stood by the edge of the pool like a scared little rabbit.

“Hey, listen, I didn't mean to-” Stiles cut him off.

“No, it's fine. It's nothing. I, uh...” he swiped a finger across his eye, “It's nothing.”

The room was silent for a while. Stiles stared into the pool, looking through the glass bottom. They were still right on the pier, so the water in the underneath was gunky, but not too unpleasant. His ears pinned back at hearing Isaac move towards him.

“Out on the water this little pool is pretty sick.” Stiles watched him kick off his shoes to the side. “I used to come down here and just soak and think when things got crazy.” He awkwardly slumped over and pulled off his socks.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked.

“You wanna take a dip?” His hands expertly unbuckled his belt and he pulled down his pants, revealing his tight, green briefs.

“You can't be serious.” Stiles deadpanned with his eyes glued to the large bulge in his underwear.

Isaac stepped close, not even bothering to unbutton his dress shirt, just pulling it over his back and tossing it with the rest of his clothes. Stiles drank in his peachy, fair skin, specked with a few moles. His chest was well-defined—pecs full, arms thick. His shoulders in particular were wide and pronounced. “Very.” He said on a breath. He smirked and hopped in without a thought. He pierced back up above the water, smiling wide as he splashed water at Stiles, soaking his pants.

“Hey!”

“What? Come on, take a dip with me!” He leaned to float on his back, hands behind his head and feet lazily kicking his way across the pool. Again Stiles' eyes locked on to the bulge in his underwear, now wet and leaving less to the imagination. 

Fuck it.

He quickly stripped, throwing his very new—and very expensive clothes—to the floor without a care. When he was down to his boxers, he sat on the edge to let his legs dip in the water before slipping in the pool. It wasn't shocking at all to plunge in the water. Must be heated. 

The wavy patterns of the light refracting in the low-lit room from the lights at the bottom edges of the pool wriggled around the walls and furniture, making the whole place seem alive with it's own form of life. The quiet splashing as Stiles paddled his way closer to Isaac echoed in the room. He laughed when he slapped some water in his face.

“What the?!” Isaac feigned shock, but quickly made a move, lunging for Stiles. He wrapped his arms around him and playfully dunked him under the water. Stiles popped up, wiping the water out of his eyes.

“Asshole!” He yipped, snorting out some water that got in his nose.

“You started it.” Isaac pushed off the edge, torpedoing his way away from Stiles.

They fought a fierce dunk-war, neither one conceding defeat. Eventually, Stiles choked on some water when he breathed in a little too soon. “Time out, time out!”

“Oh? Do you surrender?” Isaac was all provocative tone and plump-lipped, and white-teethed smiles as he swam up close to him, pinning his against the wall of the pool, arms on either side. Stiles tensed up, which wasn't lost on Isaac. He leaned in close, his breath hotter than the warm water of the pool as it ghosted over his ear. “What are you afraid of?”

Stiles squirmed. Their wet chests rubbed against each other when Isaac moved closer. His skin tingled as his body lit on fire from arousal. “I-” he stuttered “I...”

Isaac's hands slowly came to rest on his arms. The touch was gentle, but it made Stiles flinch a little. He let Isaac lift up his arms to study the bruising around his wrist and then to his neck. “Did somebody hurt you, Stiles?” He asked.

His heart was pumping so fast, he was certain Isaac could feel it against his own chest as they were pressed so tightly together. Only the quiet, tiny lapping and trickling of the water at the edge of the pool filled the room as he wiped the running concealer from under Stiles' eyes. They said nothing as they stared into each other's eyes. Isaac's crystalline-blue eyes matched the dancing light that filled the room. They were intense, but hard to read. Were they filled with pity, with passion? Filled with lust?... His pupils were blown wide as they stared into the Stiles' own honey-brown eyes.

Isaac's lids fluttered shut as he leaned in to capture his lips in a kiss only to be met with the side of his jaw. His eyes popped open, clearly hazed with lust this time. “Is something wrong?” Isaac asked, his voice thick and raspy. The hardening in his underwear was pressed into Stiles' own stiffness, aching to feel some sort of friction after being robbed of the kiss.

“I don't do that.”

“Don't?”

Stiles shook his head.

Isaac looked a little confused for a moment, but that passed when his velvety lips kissed down his jaw. “Is this okay?” he asked through his heavy breaths. Stiles' own breath was coming heavier now. He hooked his arms under Isaac's and pressed his fingers into his back.

“Yes.” he breathed.

Isaac reached down to where both of them were begging to be released from the confines of their fabric prisons and grabbed Stiles with a firm, sturdy hand. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

He slipped a hand in Stiles' underwear and grabbed hold of his shaft, pumping slowly a few times. Stiles fumbled to do the same. Isaac was much larger than him, and he was pleased that his theme of large and in charge didn't stop at his waistline. Isaac's hands came around and gripped at Stiles' cheeks, squeezing them tightly, causing his breath to hitch a little.

“Is this okay?”

“Fuck, yes...”

Stiles brought his legs up to wrap around Isaac's slim waist. It was easy in the buoyancy of the water to cling to him like a squirrel to a tree. He kissed into the crook of his neck while still squeezing his ass. Stiles rested his head against his shoulder as he rubbed his thumb over the head of Isaac's rather impressive manhood. Soon, his fingers found their way to Stiles' hole, prodding at the entrance, tentatively. 

“Is this okay?”

Stiles' lust-clouded mind was getting really sick of that little game. “Goddammit, yes, it's all okay, just fuck me!”

They both flailed around, completely ungracefully and lacking any semblance of sex, but as soon as their underwear was off and floating away, they were back to clinging to each other. Isaac lined up and entered in easily—Stiles was still loose from the club. He moaned like a bitch as Isaac slid in. He was definitely better than Who-Ever-The-Fuck from the club. He wasted no time and started thrusting immediately.

Moans and the sound of heavier waves spilling over the edge of the pool filled the room as Isaac fucked him. Their rutting was a little awkward in the resistance of the water, but he set a good pace, nonetheless. Stiles' blunt nails clawed red marks into Isaac's strong, smooth back, his face buried into his chest. His mouth hung open with his labored breaths, water splashing in on occasion, but that was so far out of his mind. 

The porous material lining the edge of the pool grated against him as Isaac pressed him against the wall, desperately seeking more leverage to thrust deeper and faster. Stiles felt the pulse of Isaac's blood throb inside him, connected in the pace of each other's hearts beating hard. Isaac pushed him back a little sliding his arms up and pinning his hands behind his head. He felt a little awkward with his arms bent back like that, but Isaac held him tightly, wrapping one arm around his back, and clutching Stiles' hands with his free own hand behind his head. Everything stopped mattering when his thrusts reached and explosive pace.

Isaac growled in his ear and his quick breath tickled the fine hairs on the side of his neck. He could feel he was close. A hot, flat tongue pressed into the pulse-point of Stiles neck and the vibrations from the growl Isaac made traveled through it onto Stiles' skin. Right there, in a moan with eyes screwed tight, he came, hands free. Isaac clearly felt the tightening from Stiles' orgasm as he outright whimpered in pleasure, thrusting hard and fast, and exploded inside of him. A few sporadic thrusts as he rode out the spurts of cum and waves of ecstasy.

The refractions from the waves of the pool were wildly flashing around the room, quickened by the intensity of the water's movement from their bodies. They were still for a long while, both waiting for their breath to return to normal. After a bit, Isaac nipped at Stiles' neck and kissed one final time before slipping out and pulling away. He floated on his back, hands behind his head, just like before. “I bet Derek didn't get that tonight, now did he?” He chuckled to himself.

Stiles floated there, a little dumbstruck. What? He had little time to think about his words as he was interrupted by someone.

“Gross, people swim in there, you know!” Erica said, sucking in a drag from a cigarette. All color fled from Stiles' face. “I took this from your pack, I hope you don't mind.” Her indifferent nonchalance at seeing Stiles naked with her brother was offputing. 

He had never moved so quickly in his life, grabbing his boxers and forcing them back on. “Erica!” Normally he wouldn't care, but he felt very self conscious that she walked in when he had just finished fucking her brother. Speaking of which, Isaac didn't seem to care, still floating around, carelessly.

“Really, Isaac, you fucked him? Don't you have any shame?”

He shrugged. What the fuck was going on?!

“What the hell, man, cover up, that's your sister!”

Erica went to sit on one of the plushy chairs, crossing her legs and puffing her cigarette in earnest. “Oh calm down, we're not blood. I'm adopted.” Isaac finally decided to pull on his boxers when Erica yelled “Lydia, I found them, they're down here!”

Lydia, followed closely by Jackson, descended down the stairs. “Ew, it smells like balls down here.” She commented, waving a hand as if that would disperse the smell.

“They fucked.” Erica explained as the new guests all found their own seats.

“What, in the pool? People swim in there, dear!”

Stiles felt like he was losing his mind. His face was beet red from embarrassment. Honestly, in some twisted way, it felt good—he didn't know he still had shame.

“Of course they would, Stilinski's a whore.” Jackson folded his arms over his chest like a little kid.

“Oh hush, Jackson, we know you're not any better.”

Isaac same to the side where Stiles was, folding his arms over the edge and resting his chin on them. Their bodies were touching and Stiles felt incredibly awkward given his audience and what had just occurred minutes before. No one else seemed bothered, though, so he allowed the proximity.

“What do you mean adopted?” he asked, “You two look like siblings.”

Erica chuckle, coughing a little in mid drag. “We get that a lot.”

“Erica came to us when she was just fourteen. She was smart, a self-made woman.” Isaac explained. He scooted ever so slightly to the left and wrapped a meaty leg around Stiles'. His breath hitched, but it seemed unnoticeable to those outside of the water.

“Oh stop.” she rolled her eyes.

“It's true. Erica came to dad with her small clothing start-up. To her, adoption was the only option. 'I'm not looking for a handout, I'm looking for status.' she told him.”

“Jesus, Isaac, shut the fuck up, will you?” Erica looked embarrassed. It didn't suit her.

Stiles scratched at the droplets of water dripping down his chin. “You had a clothing line?”

“HAVE a clothing line. Luop D'or, darling. How do you think I have all this money?”

“Rich parents.”

She sighed.

“My clothing line rakes in more than fifteen billion dollars a year. I don't need daddy's money, just his name.”

Fuck.

Lydia finally set down the cocktail she'd been sipping to add, “Erica's line, Loup D'or, my makeup company, Siren Cosmetics—we both work for what he have darling, none of it comes for free.”

“Jackson and I both work for our fathers in the travel and service industries. Big bucks there, but we're tied to daddy.” Isaac didn't look pleased to admit that. It was like the mention of his father sucked all the will from him. Curious.

“And what is it that you do again, Stilinski?” Jackson sneered.

“I can show you what I do again, pet.” He motioned his fist up, lewdly, and Jackson clenched his jaw. The others burst into laughter. It felt good to have back up against Jackson's antics. 

Stiles' eye caught the shimmer of his watch in the high of the moment, making his throat dry. “Oh, fuck!” he exclaimed, frantically wiping the water from the face. Shit! Fuck! He had forgotten to take it off! How was he so stupid?! Isaac gently took his wrist, studying the watch. His thumb swiped over the face while the rest of his fingers curled around Stiles' hand.

“What?”

“It's ruined!”

They all chuckled.

“That's a Rolex, darling, it's water-proof. Nothing to worry about.”

His moment of relief was incredibly short-lived when his ears perked up at hearing his name in the distance. 

“Oh?” Erica flipped her hair.

“Stiles! Come out here!” someone called. He knew that voice.

Derek.

Isaac and the others watched him, curiously, as he lifted himself out of the pool and gathered his clothes. Isaac hopped out as well, still in his underwear, and they all followed him to the deck. He came to the railing and looked down on the pier to where Derek was standing. The cool ocean air was even colder on his bare, wet body.

“Stiles! I've been looking for you everywhere!” he called. He quieted when Isaac stood by him. Stiles felt a hand rest on his lower back. Derek watched Isaac with the eyes of a wolf. Stiles caught a tiny smirk on Isaac's lips.

“What do you want, Derek?” Jackson asked. 

“I want Stiles. He was my plus one and I'm here to pick him up.” Derek made it seem so casual.

Isaac leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Did he hurt you? We can keep you safe.” Stiles shook his head.

“You've all been great,” Jackson rolled his eyes, “but I think I gotta go now.” With his clothes bunched up in one arm, he turned to walk down the ramp. Erica caught his elbow. 

“Let's not make this the last time seeing each other. I'll be in touch.”

With that, he walked down to Derek and headed to his Tesla. He said nothing when Stiles sat on the seat with his wet boxers. Silence as they drove up the road. They stopped at a stop sign at the top of the hill. Derek turned to him.

“Please give me the watch.”

Stiles swallowed a lump in his throat. He unbuckled the damp, metal clasp and tossed the watch, haphazardly, into Derek's lap. He pinched his brows together at Stiles' attitude but made no smart remarks.

“Thank you.”

“Whatever.”

They drove in complete silence. The warm air helped to dry Stiles' still-dripping body when Derek turned on the heater. The trees—red wood pines and palm trees—sped by as he stared out the window, chin on his hand. Stiles recognized the part of the city the were in. He reached over and plugged in a destination into the Tesla's GPS.

“Take me here.”

Derek obeyed, taking the roads out of the good part of town and across the crumbling infrastructure that led to Stile's neighborhood. Worry was apparent on Derek's face when he parked on the road in front of his worn-down house. They sat there for a bit, not even looking at each other. 

Stiles was the first to break the silence. “This is where I live.” He looked to Derek. The shifting color in his eyes was dim under the harsh, yellow-orange color of the streetlamp. “I'm not rich, I'm trash.” He balled up his clothes and thrust them into Derek's chest. “I don't need your charity, and I sure as fuck don't need to steal. I make it just fucking fine.” 

“Stiles-” Derek was cut off when Stiles flung the door open, coming around the front to the driver's side window. Derek rolled it down.

“Don't fucking contact me again. You got it?” He started to walk up the path.

“Stiles!” He turned around to see Derek waving his phone. He came up and took it from his hand. Derek opened his mouth, hesitantly. “I should pay you.”

Nope. Wrong fucking thing to say.

“You're fucking unbelievable. Get the fuck out of here.”

Stiles unlatched the gate and walked up to the stoop. He and Derek shared a prolonged stare, but, after some time, Derek shifted his arm, started the quiet engine, and drove away. Stiles stood there in nothing but his boxers. His lungs clawed at him for a cigarette. Fuck, he left his pack on the yacht. He chuckled to himself. Jesus. That sentence should not exist for him.

His eyes flicked up to a crow perched on the power line when it cawed. It swooped down, landing on the sidewalk in front of him. Shiny, metallic paper of a gum-wrapper was clamped in its beak. It hopped up a little, dropping the wrapper at Stiles' feet. He stared at the wrapper, then to the crow. It's beady eye analyzed him for a moment before it was spooked by a breeze and flew off with a chain of gritty caws. The paper flipped over in the wind, revealing the matte, wax-paper side. 

Stiles turned, opened the screen door with a screech of rusty metal, and went inside.


End file.
